Warders
by Blue Dragon
Summary: Eight Warders, one of each Ajah including the Black, and their Aes Sedai. A study of characters and relationships beneath the Warder bond, all turned into a single story; all their lives are about to change forever, because some can't keep their fingers out of the Shadow.
1. Warder of the White Sister

**Warder of the White Sister**

A tap on the door – Haqon was instantly alert, ready to fight, and looked to his Aes Sedai for guidance.

"Just open the door, Haqon. No danger yet."

Lomiel spoke without looking up from her game. A puzzle – a thousand lovingly carved wooden pieces, which when fitted correctly together were to form a marvellous painting of the White Tower, Dragonmount behind it. Lomiel paid obscene amounts of gold to have puzzles made – where she had had the idea to begin with, Haqon did not know – and only ever solved each one once. She said they bored her the second time.

Haqon rose from his chair. He set the cup of tea down – once, twice, thrice tapping it against the wooden table before finally letting it stand. He went out of Lomiel's chamber, into the antechamber, touching the frame of the doorway between the rooms thrice before stepping through. He walked to the door and gripped the handle once, twice, thrice, only the final time actually opening it.

"Good afternoon," said the young Brown sister who stood outside. If not for the shawl across her shoulders, the ring on her left forefinger, and the Warder at her heels, he would have thought her a farmer's wife instead of an Aes Sedai. She blinked up at him with intensely green eyes, her gaze studying then quickly dismissing him. "Is Lomiel Sedai in?"

He felt a shift in the bond, and knew that Lomiel had heard. Being quite weak in the Power, she stood low in the Tower hierarchy – at least, that was the reason she gave – and for her, other Aes Sedai often meant standing and curtsying. And however she might deny it, _he_ knew that her hip pained her when she curtsied.

And neither of them knew any Aes Sedai they trusted enough to ask for Healing.

"Lomiel Sedai is resting," he said.

"She can rest later," murmured the Brown and made to step past him – just step right beneath his arm and into the antechamber! Was it rudeness, or just Brown Ajah airiness? A Brown after some scrap of knowledge would think of nothing else, least of all _manners_.

Or was it the beginning of a threat…?

But he had just seen – from the corner of his eye – Lomiel appear in the doorway to her bed chamber, and make an allowing gesture. So he let the Brown pass. Her Warder trailed her with a bored expression – a very young Warder. So young that he likely thought his expression one of confidence, not just boredom.

Haqon narrowed his eyes. What use did a Brown have of a Warder? And why was he trailing her through the Tower itself?

He was suspicious of everyone, and so used to it by now that he no longer felt guilty over it. Lomiel alone he trusted, and Lomiel he trusted absolutely.

Three taps of his forefinger on the handle after he closed the door, then he followed the two guests into the sitting room, where Lomiel had led the way. As he crossed the floor, he was careful not to step on the white flower mosaic, and only on the pale blue and greens surrounding them. He touched the doorframe thrice as he passed through it - the automatic gesture soothed him.

Lomiel seated herself in her favourite armchair, and with an elegant gesture invited the Brown to sit opposite her. The young Warder planted himself behind the Brown, and exchanged nod with Haqon as Haqon passed and placed himself similarly at Lomiel's side, his arms crossed over his chest.

The other Warder still appeared bored - a juvenile and unprofessional expression - but at least a bored Warder meant a calm Aes Sedai. Or a good actor. Young Warders seldom were good actors – they had not yet learned enough distance from their Aes Sedai's moods.

What _did_ a young Brown believe she needed a Warder for? What was she up to?

"Do you have tea, Lomiel?" asked the Brown.

Lomiel nodded at Haqon, who went to fetch more from the kettle, and a pair of cups. He stepped on the black and red flowers on the carpet, and never on the interlaced white and golden roses.

"A fine day to you, Jahra," Lomiel greeted her guest. Her own tea cup, which she had brought with her from her chamber, she still held in her hands. Her back was straight as a rod, but not stiff, and her face was a mask of cool composure. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"I read an old volume on trolloc speech in the library, and found your name on it," said the Brown. "And you are still alive."

This was said as if it made her reason to visit clear as fine glass. Haqon poured tea and decided that no, it had not been rudeness; this Jahra was just a typical Brown, distracted and thoughtless. She thought little of how another might perceive things, and was so absorbed in her own trains of thought she would be surprised to find that someone else did not automatically follow them too. He tapped each cup with the spoon thrice as he added sugar, then replaced the lid on the sugar container three times before letting it settle – the other Warder gave him an odd frown, which he ignored.

"I _have_ considered retiring," Lomiel replied, after a moment, when she had figured out what the Brown might have meant. There was nothing in her voice, but the bond betrayed guardedness.

Haqon could not recall any volumes on or even interests in trolloc language. Must have been before his time, and he had been her Warder for… was it fifty years? Lomiel had been white-haired even then, but now his hair was as white as hers, and grown thin besides.

But he had never heard her speak of retirement before.

"My pardons, Jahra," Lomiel went on. "I hardly remember the volume in question. My name is on it because I helped the author with a few details, some flaws in the logic – not that there is much _logic_ in anything _trollocs_ do, mind."

"I know – why thank you, Gaidin –" She took the tea cup Haqon offered her without looking at him. "– but, Lomiel, what strikes me is that it isn't the only work where I've found your name in conjunction with Adenda Sedai, who was of the Brown. Brown writers rarely cite help from outside their own Ajah."

Haqon handed the Brown's Warder a cup of tea, too, and the boy took it with another nod, smelled it once, then set it down. Likely he found it too sweet – Haqon made tea to suit Lomiel, and Lomiel liked her tea sweet.

The Brown, however, sipped hers and looked pleased.

"Adenda was an acquaintance," said Lomiel, serene as ever while the bond betrayed growing unease. She had rested her hands on her lap, and sat very still, even for her.

Haqon touched his belt knife – and jerked his hand away. Foolish, to betray his Aes Sedai like that! He locked both hands behind his back. Haqon knew to take nothing in the Tower for granted. Trust was a thing the years had bled out of him. But so far, this was just another inquisitive Brown, and he had no business with his belt knife.

He had two swords hidden nearby – one in Lomiel's bed chamber, and one hidden in the spine of the armchair where Lomiel sat. Reassuring, that. And he had his knives – he steeled himself to avoid touching the hiding place of each in turn to count them – and the other Warder carried no sword, just a single long dagger.

But Lomiel was wary, so Haqon scowled. The other Warder raised his eyebrows, as if amused. Haqon deepened his scowl. He was not _that_ old.

"More than an acquaintance, I would say," murmured the Brown in her soft voice. "You worked with her – and however minor your involvement, you did it often enough to keep the two of you cooped up together for years."

"This isn't about trolloc language."

Jahra smiled. "No, it isn't. This is about what happened to Adenda Sedai."

"She retired near a hundred years ago."

"Yes. But her retirement was never planned."

"It was a rather abrupt decision…"

"Neither was it peaceful. One might even say it was… _cut brutally short_."

Lomiel stood so suddenly that Haqon drew his belt knife and was in a fighter's crouch before he knew what he was doing. If _Lomiel_ let her icy White Ajah serenity fall, then it was high time to –

But the Brown just sipped her tea. Her Warder drew closer to her, hand resting on his dagger, eyes alert. Haqon recognized him now: his name was Jored, and he was fast as a striking snake. Dangerous, that.

Jahra set her cup on the table. "I had hoped we could avoid this. Do release the Source and sit down, Lomiel. I have questions for you. That is all, I promise."

Lomiel smoothed her skirts, and gradually rewrapped herself in her cool composure as if it was a shawl, or perhaps an armour. But the bond was a jumble of frustration and wariness, anger, all threaded through by twitching fear.

Haqon twirled his belt knife in his hand and sheathed it. Was the other Warder fast enough to duck a throwing knife at that short distance? He had one in his sleeve. As for the Brown… well, he and Lomiel had faced Aes Sedai stronger than she was before, and emerged alive. Noone was to know, of course. That was crucial; noone must ever know.

But slowly, Lomiel lowered herself back into her armchair.

Jahra continued. "Adenda Sedai wrote much on a certain faction among people. Among people of every state and city – Darkfriends. She described them as integrated in every system throughout the world, every population. Evil in the common man. A subject for which I share her fascination; what makes a person turn to the Dark..?"

"Adenda spent her life writing – I can't recall _all_ she ever –"

"Also, dated just before she retired, she wrote a treatise on the Black Ajah."

"Where did you –" began Lomiel, then snapped her mouth shut so abruptly that her teeth clicked, and like a cat caught ungraceful, she pretended the slip had never happened.

"Libraries are wonderful places for hiding books, not only for finding them. I found a copy folded into that volume on trolloc language. It isn't a very good book on the subject, and we have three copies only here in Tar Valon, only the first of which shows any signs of wear at all… I doubt the third has been touched by more than a dust feather since it was scribed."

Lomiel sat silent and unblinking like a statue, her hands folded in her lap and her calm might have been regal if it had not been so cold.

Her lack of response did nor bother the Brown. "The Black Ajah very much exist, if Adenda Sedai is to be believed. Why shouldn't they? Every other society we know of has Darkfriends, even in the Broderlands, and among the Children of the Light, too, I'd wager. Why not us? What would set us above the rest?"

"What do you want me to say?" Even beneath her cool surface, Lomiel had gathered her courage and wits again. The bond, as her voice, was steady.

The Brown sister had set down her cup of tea, and forgotten it. She was leaned forwards in her seat, her attention rapt on Lomiel. "You were Novice and Accepted with Adenda. I checked the books. You were raised to the shawl together, and you worked with her. You must have known her well, what she did, and why. But tell me under the Oaths that you know nothing of any Black Ajah, and I will believe you."

Lomiel sat, unblinking, staring at the other Aes Sedai. She still said not a word – but it was a different kind of muteness, now, and finally she folded down her gaze in defeat. She felt cornered. No longer afraid – simply cornered and uneasy.

"The treatise said the Black Ajah could likely lie. So I will assume you are not Black, for then you would have told me 'I know nothing of the Black Ajah'."

Lomiel sighed.

"Which, of course, you would have told me, had it been the truth. So all I now have learned is that you _probably_ know something, and you are _probably_ not Black – and thus, likely not responsible for Adenda Sedai's untimely demise. Few knew where she went, so I'll admit it; I did suspect your involvement."

_So therefore she brought the Warder_, thought Haqon, and a piece of the puzzle clicked into place in his head. It did not answer why she thought she had needed a Warder to begin with.

"Fewer knew she was killed," said Lomiel.

"Answers come to those who seek persistently."

"So she did manage to hide a copy of the treatise?"

The Brown sister nodded. "Where even few Browns would ever find it. Honestly, that book on trolloc language is horrible. I can't understand why anyone ever _bothered_ to scribe three copies…"

Haqon had reverted to standing with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face, but Lomiel's calm was returned in full force. "I told Adenda never to write that treatise – and if she did, never to book it in the library. But Adenda lived in her own world. I don't believe she ever even left the Tower before her retirement… Darkfriends and the Black Ajah were no more real to her than letters on a paper. An abstract reality to be pondered in peace." Lomiel looked the young Brown in the eye. Her face was perfectly expressionless, but her voice hinted at sentiment behind her words. "Don't make the same mistake."

Behind the Brown young Jored shifted uneasily, as if worried that that was exactly what Jahra would do.

"Then they exist? You know this?"

"Who else would host any desire to kill Adenda? And if it was them, they must have connections in the Brown, for whoever murdered her knew where she was sent. I travelled to visit her…" Lomiel blinked as tears suddenly flooded her eyes. She dried them hastily on her sleeve.

Haqon's scowl was broken – he had to stop himself from staring at her. Oh, she had lost her composure before, that was nothing new. It was unusual, but it happened. But _tears_..? He had never seen her weep before. Not once. Not once in fifty years –

"And not only Adenda. I lost Petryn, my first Warder…"

That explained the tears – relieved, Haqon could scowl on. Her first Warder had been killed decades before she had bonded him. Her second… four years. She had never been long without. Unusual, for a White. Even for one who made frequent and lengthy journeys away from the Tower – which was also unusual for a White.

And there was that detail that noone was to know of. Those encounters with other Aes Sedai – Aes Sedai stronger than Lomiel, but that had not saved them.

The young Brown nodded. "I thank you for your time…"

"One thing I can tell you," said Lomiel interrupted quietly, raising a hand to halt the Brown before she rose to leave. "She always sent a copy of every work she made to her cousin's library. Her cousin's – and then his son's. I believe she even sent her notes there. It's all encrypted, but there are things there that aren't to be found in the Tower."

Jahra's smile was longing, and her eyes bright and alert. "Where?"

For some reason, relief swept into Lomiel, and she spoke almost in a sigh, as if she for long had held her breath and now, finally, could let it out. She told the young Brown where to find Adenda's notes, and warned her to be careful. To keep her mouth duly closed. "I will send a pigeon to the current inhabitant, and tell him to expect you and grant you access."

"I thank you."

Jahra stood again to leave, but Jored set a hand to her shoulder. He looked at Lomiel with more distrust than had his Aes Sedai. "Forgive me, Lomiel Sedai, but why are you helping us?"

Haqon grunted before he could stop himself. He might have asked the very same thing.

Lomiel's expression said nothing, and her words came in a lazy drawl. She raised a single forefinger. "For one simple reason. Currently all Adenda's work is to no use, and you've expressed interest in it. She would be glad. But if you end up like she did, I'll not take the blame."

"She never had a Warder," said Jahra, and smiled fondly up at Jored. She turned back to Lomiel, while patting her Warder's hand, which still rested on her shoulder. "Jored will keep me safe. And in any case, I won't be going alone. I have a friend who will likely travel with me." The young Brown frowned, still patting her Warder's hand as if her arm was moving of its own, left at its task and forgotten by her mind. "And Jored, we should stop to see your mother when we head home. It _is_ on the way."

Jored gave a visible start, then caught himself. He sent Lomiel and Haqon a short, suspicious glare, then replied simply; "Yes, Jahra. She would appreciate that."

"But just the two of us. If we bring company your mother will feel overwhelmed."

Jored smiled. "Having one Aes Sedai in the house is quite enough for her, you're right."

Jahra nodded. She took a sip from her tea cup, set it down, and rose. "Again, thank you," she said to Lomiel, then turned to leave without a second glance.

Lomiel made no effort to hold her even a moment longer, so did not even return the goodbye.

Jored and Haqon exchanged another nod, and Haqon followed them to the door. The two trooped down the hallway, Jahra tripping and Jored striding beside her. Haqon remained in the doorway, glad to see them go, waiting until they were safely out of sight. Just to be sure.

As they came to the first cross corridor, the young Brown hesitated. "Jored," she asked. "Where was I going?"

"To visit Yamela," her Warder told her. "The practice yard."

"Oh. Yes." Jahra nodded thoughtfully, and only after a moment went on; "This way, Jored." She picked a small, leather-bound book from a pocket on her skirt, put it beneath her nose, and strolled off in the direction not towards the practice yard. Her Warder followed with a rueful smile.

Haqon raised his eyebrows. Perhaps the girl did have need of a Warder, after all. He closed the door – tapped the handle three times – and went back inside to Lomiel, who had picked up her tea again. It had grown cold, and beneath her cool expression she was sad. He thought he knew why.

"Do we tell _her_?" he asked.

"We tell _her_ everything," Lomiel replied. "As we must, especially of late. Would you do it? Put a note in the usual place."

Haqon went to a nearby writing desk for pen and ink. He had a neater hand than did his Aes Sedai. She was more for taking personal notes than writing things to others, and her hand had a neglected slant which made it barely legible.

"And Haqon..? Just mention the Brown and her Warder, and their interests and questions, and where they're going. No need to mention Adenda's notes. I've kept that from them so far, and I'd like to keep doing so."

Haqon brought out ink, paper, a feather pen, and composed the message. Each time the pen went into the ink jar, he scraped exactly thrice on the rim of the jar to be rid of the excess ink, and each time the pen touched paper, it did so three times before he could begin the letter.

Lomiel spoke into her tea. "Doing this… I feel like I'm holding my hand cupped to protect a candle while I let the fire die in the fireplace. It's illogical. I should focus on what is most important. I should focus on the fire."

"Illogical?" said Haqon, returning ink and feather pen to their places - he had to close the lid of the pen case three times; click, click, _click_. The repetition soothed him. "Logically, in the end, you're no more than human, Lomiel. And you act like a human."

She sniffed. "You mean I commit a human's mistakes. I should…"

"You do your part of the work for the fireplace too, Lomiel."

"But it's never enough, is it?"

Haqon would not lie to her. "No," he said softly. "It isn't. But that doesn't mean we can give up. Or retire…?"

Lomiel laughed. She had a wonderfully rich laugh, when she let it out. All in all, he had heard her laugh perhaps a dozen times more than he had seen her weep. "Oh, I've considered retiring. Dreamed of it. But how could I?"

Haqon folded the note together and handed it to her. She needed to do something with the Power on it before he could deliver it. She bent over her work, and he waited.

"If you wish to retire," he said softly, "then do it. I'll come with you. There will be no cutting _your_ retirement short."

"Someday, Haqon. But not today. There is still work to be done."

"As you say, Aes Sedai," Haqon agreed. He retook the note and went to deliver it. Soon, the Brown's Warder would no longer look so infuriatinglybored.


	2. Warder of the Brown Sister

**Warder of the Brown Sister**

Jored's eyes shot awake.

One moment all had been peaceful, but the next… the next, they were simply _there_. Creatures of the shadow, announced by a feel of vileness which made him want to grimace and seize his sword. They had not slowly approached – their appearance had been like an unforeseen slap across the face. It was as if they had simply stepped out of thin air.

He scanned the room as he swept to his feet, neatly laying the book which had rested open on his chest onto a table.

Jahra was not nearby. That knot of sensations and emotions in the back of his head was calm, preoccupied, and thankfully unharmed. Somewhere in the direction of the library – as he might well have guessed.

He was already striding for the door, his sword half-way out of its sheath by the time he entered the corridor, and his legs bearing him at a run before the door had closed behind him.

Shadowspawn. He had not felt them approach – _how_ had they come so close without his knowing? – but he knew they were there.

He had to find Jahra before they did. Jahra had likely noticed nothing, and in her preoccupied mood she would hardly note anything amiss even if a Myrddraal stopped her to ask for directions.

Jored ran as fast as he could, automatically dodging surprised servants not quick enough to get out of his way, skidding around the corners so that at least one rug was left crinkled towards a wall behind him. The running and dodging was automatic – his concentration remained with the ball of emotions in his mind; his Aes Sedai. He would know the moment she was in danger – more precisely, the moment she _realised_ she was in danger. He wished she had not left him in their chambers –

But there had been no need, had there? Blood and ashes, where _had_ the shadowspawn come from? They had been _warned_ to be careful, but neither of them would ever have expected _shadowspawn_... and… and…

And _what_? His thought was bitter – he felt like spitting, disgusted with himself. Was he not her Warder? Was he not responsible for her safety? Burn it, burn _expectations_, he would never let her out of his sight again.

Not even to go to a library. He would not mind accompanying her. He enjoyed libraries as much as she did, after all. He just was not… as _absorbed_.

She was not in the library any longer, but on her way back to their quarters. More or less. As he neared her, he found that she must have missed a turn. The preoccupied manner remained; she was likely reading as she walked.

He was so focused on Jahra that he almost ran right into the trollocs.

At once they were right in front of him, the vileness in his mouth strong enough to make him gag, the smell attacking his nostrils as if it intended to knock him out.

His sword flashed up, sailed through the first – they were as surprised as he had been – and he exchanged a single blow with the second before sweeping past it and stabbing it in the side, wrenching the blade free just in time to slam aside a coming spear from the third of the beasts. His free hand clasped the shaft of the spear to lock it, but the trolloc simply released it and charged. Jored deflected a set of claws with his sword, and spun the spear in an arc above his head. The trolloc ducked the heavy wooden shaft – and fell to a quick sweep of the blade instead.

Jored tossed the spear aside and stepped over the twitching form. Not fully dead yet – but it would be.

He had faced trollocs once before, five years ago, but he had been younger then. Newly bonded and visiting the Borderlands for the first time. Since then, his skills seemed to have developed. He had always been fast, but perhaps his stances and motions had been refined. Light knew the Master of Arms had bullied him enough to make a rock weep – weep, and improve.

In any case, trollocs weren't as difficult as he remembered them. Ungainly opponents. Little more than passing amusement.

Not that he was likely to take any risks. Not with Jahra near.

She was close, just out of reach… he rounded a last corner and jogged towards her. The corridor was clear of trollocs – there was just Jahra there, still thankfully unharmed and with her nose as deeply in a thick, leather-bound book as the knot of sensations in the back of his head had led him to believe.

She was a slight figure, pale hair gathered into a single tail, dressed in fine woollens and comfortable slippers, and might have looked a well-to-do farmer's wife if not for the golden ring on her finger. Her face was not ageless yet – she had been Aes Sedai barely two years longer than he had been her Warder – but she had mastered a serene grace which, truthfully, would have looked odd on a farmer's wife. It was a sort of unconscious awareness of her surroundings which allowed her to, among other things, open doors or bypass furniture without thinking of it, and made every gentle, careful motion look assured and deliberate.

He approached her and pulled the book from her hands – it was likely the only way to get her attention.

"Jored!" she snapped, snatching the book back and deftly finding her place – without even turning her eyes or her instant scowl up at him. "You know better!"

"Jahra –" he began sharply, but it was no use.

She had returned to her book.

She must have felt his worry – he _knew_ she felt his worry – but she did not react to it.

No wonder, he thought dryly. Did a day pass when he did _not_ worry, for one reason or another? Not for trollocs or other shadowspawn… but still, more than once he had reined himself from an urge to hover over her every waking moment. She might very well be too busy reading to notice a stairway, and fall down it.

Sometimes he doubted she would look up from her book even if she did.

Then again, no, that was a ridiculous thought. She had mastered the art of descending staircases while reading long ago, and he had progressed to worrying about more dangerous things, such as railings she might topple over, large open fire places which seemed just made for strolling blindly into, or windows she might sit herself in and then, without a thought, lean back.

He still thanked the Light that he and the other Warders had been able to talk Jahra and two of the Brown sisters out of a trip into Shadar Logoth, to question with Mordeth about Aridhol, and the time before the city fell.

He still did not doubt she would have gone, had he not stopped her. Perhaps, she might even have gone, while forgetting him in Tar Valon – a thought which made him chew his nails.

All in all, it was no wonder how his worry, and a few trollocs nearby, were not enough to distract her from her reading.

The smell was back in his nostrils – more trollocs. A glance over his shoulder showed two, rushing gleefully at him and the Aes Sedai.

He sighed, gripped her by the waist and lifted her into a side corridor. She took no notice of that, either, just flipped a page as he set her down, as if her feet had never left the ground.

He stood to face the oncoming beasts, positioned firmly between her and them, and nearly smiled. Just as well that Jahra was preoccupied – she might well have asked him to keep a trolloc alive for study. He drew his belt knife with his left hand, swirled the sword in his right hand once, and charged.

A pig-snouted trolloc screamed at him and came in with a halberd. He danced aside, almost lazily, sweeping his blade in a graceful arc which would have come just short of the creature's throat – had he not at the last moment leaned into the motion, adding the extra finger's reach which sent the blade's tip through flesh and windpipe. Without pause, he drew his sword up, hilt high and point low, and stepped in beneath it, so that it shielded him from the axe of the second trolloc. There were two axes. But as the other came on, Jored had already spun the sword upward and down into the creature's shoulder. He took another lazy step aside to avoid the axes as the trolloc fell.

He hadn't even needed the knife.

Jored grinned like a fool inside, though he was careful to keep his face expressionless. So very, very easy. If trollocs generally were no more difficult than this, then why all the fuss?

With a stern reminder that where two were child's play, and five fair game, ten or more might still mean death, he backtracked to the side corridor where he had set Jahra down.

She was strolling away, her nose still in her book. He hurried after her, past her, to scan ahead into all side corridors. He needed to find a safe place. More importantly, he needed to convince her to go there and stay there.

The library, perhaps?

No – too difficult to defend. Too big, too many aisles and hiding places. Too many doors, too many windows, and no back exits.

Fortunately, in her current mood, Jahra was not likely to pay much mind to where he put her. She would hardly look up from her book if he tossed her over his shoulder and ran. An approach far beneath respectable – had his mother ever heard he intended to put an Aes Sedai over his shoulder she would have slapped him hard enough to knock the teeth from his mouth – but one not beneath him.

He scanned another corridor, thankful to find it empty. Disrespectable or not: if he had to, he would, and little short of her dropping the book (she would never forgive him for that) he would not slow until they were safe.

Where were Yamela and her Warders? Were they making a stand? He would not mind joining them. Yamela was a Green, Jahra's current travelling companion, and an unlikely friend since their days as novices. He wished the two had kept closer together. Yamela was more inclined to fight shadowspawn than disregard them, and three more Warders between Jahra and danger would have suited him just fine.

Where were the trollocs coming from? Who led them, who had sent them? How had they come in?

All questions for later, he chided himself. _Focus_.

Both of the next crossing corridors were empty, and he hurried on ahead – and realised that Jahra was no longer following. Sharply he turned, rushed back, and burst into the corridor she had taken.

"Jahra, _please_," he murmured as he reached her, and took her arm. "There are trollocs about! Could you –?"

"Trollocs? Don't be silly," she murmured, and turned a page. She deftly stepped around a stool lying overturned on the floor, her eyes never away from her reading. "No trolloc has been seen this far from the Blight in…"

She trailed off – he rolled his eyes. But at least she had answered. And again, _had_ she taken note of the trollocs, she would probably insist on that live specimen for study. It was not as if he expected her to help fight, in any case. She was no good in a fight – mostly she only stood there, blank of eye, mouth slightly ajar in shock. But he would feel better if only she deigned employ a bit of _alertness_.

He assumed this corridor was as good as any other. Sense of direction had never been his strong point, and he did not yet know his way around this place. And any corridor was as likely as the next to hold trollocs.

In his mind he tried to draw up a map of the palace, and marked locations which would be likely rallying points, or simply easy to defend, and – of course – exits.

Again he scouted ahead.

Again Jahra disappeared into a side corridor behind him. This time he was more alert, and practically heeled her as she turned. Fairly, this time she had warned him, with a light; "This way, Jored."

Just a dozen long paces into the corridor his blood ran cold. The vileness rose like bile in his throat – he was caught between a will to gag, and a will to bare his teeth. He halted Jahra brusquely by shoving a hand against her shoulder.

Whatever it was, it was close – very close. _But where?_

There was no time to pinpoint the sensation.

A Myrddraal burst at him, right through a wall. With Jahra so close behind, all he could do was charge.

He drove it back, away from his Aes Sedai, but from the very first blow he knew his mistake: this had been when he should have tossed Jahra over his shoulder to run. This had been the time, and he had missed it.

Trollocs had been easy. The Myrddraal was not. If he defeated it, it would be by a hair. If that. But it was too late now. He could not disengage – there would be no time to flee if he did, only time to take that black blade in his back instead of his chest – he had to face it.

"Jahra, run!" he managed through gritted teeth. He engaged every reflex, every vestige of strength, every last wit in holding his own against the creature. He was too deep in concern for his Aes Sedai to fear its eyeless gaze – she was _not running_, Light burn her!

The sheer ferocity of his desperation forced the Myrddraal back, but it showed no concern. Its black cloak hung deathly still behind it, but the Halfman itself reminded him of a leaf in a wind; responding only when pushed, moving just as quickly as necessary, and never precisely in the predicted direction. It would make unexpected attacks, unexpected turns, and it seemed to read him as easy as Jahra did her book.

It was too fast, and too cunning, and in mere moments he could no longer drive it back. Instead, he was fighting for his life.

And one miss was all it took – one sliver of an opening as he flowed between the forms, somewhere between Crane Dancing and Storm In The Hills.

The Myrddraal's black blade was well beneath his guard, and he did not know it until it was too late. Cold steel cut skin, muscle, through his side and almost to his spine.

Himself, Jored gave not a sound, only accepted the exploding pain, and fought against collapsing in a heap.

But behind him, Jahra gave a startled cry, and he heard her book fall. Out of the corner of his eye as he staggered – Light, he _staggered_, he had no time to stagger, he had to –

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her set a hand to her side, just where he had been struck. He saw her watch him fall, wide-eyed.

No. He would not fall. Emptiness of mind battled agony of body for control over limbs. He stirred – he made some motion, he was not sure what. He should – he realised he was on the floor, and the Myrddraal was stepping over him.

No. No no no.

He –

He woke with his head on Jahra's lap. She was teary-eyed, but the knot of sensations and emotions in the back of his head told him that she was unharmed.

"He's awake," announced a brisk voice. He recognized Anthared, a silver-haired Warder bonded to Yamela.

"Then he'll likely live," Yamela said. "Oh, chin up, Jahra. He'll be fine."

Yamela's other two Warders, the twins Durrak and Vaston, were likely about too.

Jored closed his eyes again with a relieved sigh. He was very, very tired. Yamela must have healed him – Jahra couldn't have healed a scratched knee.

"Yam, they're gone," came Vaston's musical words. "At least, so it seems. How's the boy doing?"

Jored grimaced. The older Warders still called him a 'boy'. Even Vaston and Durrak, who had no more than five years on him – in _age_! They had hardly been Warders a month longer than he.

"He'll live," said Anthared. And to Jored's surprise, he leaned down and caught Jahra's chin on the tip of a hooked finger, tilting her head up to meet his gaze, which he could hone to just as sharp as his sword when he so wished. "Next time, Jahra Sedai," he intoned, each word like a smith's hammer striking, "perhaps you would deign to look up from your studies _before_ your Warder falls dying to the floor."

Jored felt Jahra's shock flood through the bond. He was too weak to do much – but he opened his eyes and scowled warning up at the other Warder. Just wait until he was on his feet, and Anthared would hear more of this. The man had no right to upset his Aes Sedai so. _No right _–

"_That_ was out of line, Anthared," snapped Yamela. "Apologize."

He quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Do it, Gaidin!" she barked, her voice equal to the Master of Arms's best.

Anthared bowed to Jahra, graceful as a snake, and delivered as good an apology as Jored had ever heard. Jored did not much care: Jahra still sat stunned as if struck. Her hands, which had rested lightly on his shoulders, now cramped closed about the fabric of his dark grey doublet. Yes, Anthared would hear more of this later. No matter if the man had a point – no matter that Jahra _knew_ he had a point – he still had no right.

Jahra bit her lip in a most non-Aes Sedai manner, and glanced at her friend in askance.

"Well, he's right," muttered Yamela after a moment. "But he's also out –" she shot a dagger of a stare at her oldest warder "– of _line_."

Jahra's nod was weak.

Yamela patted her cheek. "You _did_ do well, sister. You just didn't do it quick enough."

"How about…" murmured Jored drowsily, "…the next time I say 'trollocs', you believe me?"

Jahra smiled as he spoke, relief mixed with thankfulness – thankfulness that he was not angry with her, he did not blame her.

She should have known he would not.

"I will, Jored," she promised, her smile still filled with relief so light it was almost airy.

He nodded, not sure if he could trust that. She meant it, no doubt. Today had granted them both a lesson. But she was how she was, and he had no real desire to change her.

He would just have to keep a better eye on things.


	3. Warder of the Green Sister

**Warder of the Green Sister**

Anthared examined the slender blade carefully before returning it to its owner. "Good enough," he told Yamela gruffly.

She beamed at him. A bright, contagious joy bloomed in the corner of his mind which was her. He had to smile. Sometimes she responded with such childish pleasure at his approval that he caught himself thinking of her as a favoured daughter, not an Aes Sedai. Not _his_ Aes Sedai.

But there was no mistaking the bond.

Yamela took the sword and returned it to the plain scabbard. This time, her work really had been good – the blade was clean, the edge razor sharp. The girl was hopeless at mundane tasks, and taking good care of a blade seemed as far out of her spectrum of natural talents as was cooking, but as she had proven before, she could learn.

Learn, yes. His thoughts drifted.

Before long he had leaned back in his chair, reached for his goblet of wine, and found it empty. He snatched the carafe and refilled it, then raised it to his lips…

The scowl was instant. There in the bond, and there on her face.

Anthared sighed and put the goblet back down. A favoured daughter indeed. One who had taken to bullying him, as if he was too old to remember his own good. "I've only had the one goblet," he muttered. "I'll not fall over if I have a second."

She gave him a _look_. But a man had to speak his mind with favoured daughters – or Aes Sedai – or he would be trampled. Then again, he would be trampled anyway. "You never bother Vaston and Durrak about –"

"Vaston and Durrak don't _overdo_ their drinking," she said curtly. He felt her glare even though she turned to the little bookshelf, tapping the spines of the few books, seeking one to read. She only would if she found something with adventure in it. None of the sappy romances other women might read; Yamela read stories of proud kings and queens of old, of matchless warriors, great strategist, or essays on warfare.

She picked a thin leather-bound volume, and perched herself on the armrest of the armchair. _On_ the armrest, not _in_ the armchair. He raised his eyebrows, amused. It was well that she still lacked the ageless face. To carry the face would mean she needed to grow into it. People expected things of Aes Sedai, and perching on armrests was not one of them.

She had time to grow – she was young. Just thirty-five. Young enough to _be_ his daughter. His granddaughter. Thinking of it made his joints ache.

His last Aes Sedai had been older than he. She had worn the shawl near fifty years before bonding him. At their first meeting he had bobbed in bows until he hardly knew up from down. Him, a bright-eyed youth, Warder trained but with only fanciful ideas about the world outside. Her… _Vaserre_.

Light, Vaserre. It still hurt. Eight years, and it _still hurt_. He reached for the wine again, and came as far as touching the goblet's side…

"I said _no_, Anthared," cut Yamela's firm voice from behind her book.

"Technically, you _said_ nothing at all," he muttered, but obeyed. He rested his hands palms-down on his thighs.

"Not in words, but you understood me." She had set the book down. "I don't like to see you in pain. Let's go out."

He rose swiftly, ignoring the pain in his bad knee, the ache in his back. Reminders of his age. Yamela healed it for him at least once a week, but it always returned. "Vaston and Durrak will be back –"

The twins had left to buy supplies, while he stayed with Yamela. He disliked leaving her alone. _Disliked_? He – bloody – well – _panicked_. Vaserre had only been out of his sight for –

Oh, she had been out of his sight plenty of times. But all he remembered was the last time – all that mattered was the last time. He had only felt her usual businesslike serenity, self-assured and efficient… broken suddenly by pain – and then that pit opened in his mind as if to swallow him.

Yamela's amused voice cut his dark reflections like a knife did butter. "Gaidin, just because I _have_ three Warders doesn't mean all three need to shadow my every step."

"The city crawls with Whitecloaks," he reminded her. Whatever else they were, the twins were good swordsmen, and he wanted them along. He did not _like_ Whitecloaks. Whitecloaks were like rats; wherever one showed up, more were never far away.

She only winked at him, holding her great serpent ring up before putting it in her pocket. As always, she left her sword behind – a woman with a sword attracted attention – and donned her green wool cloak.

Anthared gave in to her whim. It was that, or to be bullied into it. Little less than three Forsaken would be necessary to ever make Yamela heed caution.

Vaserre had been ever cautious – and it had not saved her.

He grimaced and snatched up his own cloak – a plain garment for the time. The Warder cloak was stuffed into his saddle bags.

"It's a pity we have no place available for a bit of sparring," she mused, taking his arm as they headed down the corridor, away from their rooms. "That usually cheers you up."

"Yamela." He used her _entire_ name. Unlike the twins, he never called her _Yam_. It was not _fitting_, to call your Aes Sedai by a nickname, and that was that. "I'm fine."

Yamela knew, of course. She always knew.

For him, fine was like the shards of a dropped vase, when they were no longer strewn across the floor, but instead gathered into a corner. Neatly.

Still shattered, but gathered neatly.

She reached up to touch his cheek with a fingertip. He hardly noticed.

It still hurt. It waited always in the back of his head: a bottomless pit of grief and fury and emptiness – most of all emptiness. He would fall into it if he didn't tread lightly.

But then there was Yamela. Yamela _needed_ him, and that kept him alive.

Her hand was light on his arm as he escorted her out of the inn. He nodded at the two Warders seated in the common room, both belonging to Nevien Sedai, who currently rested in her room – hiding her ageless face. The first of the two – Rill – lounged in a chair, head nodding now and then and mouth slightly ajar, seemingly on the verge of sleep, while the other – Ilvok – fiddled with a puzzle game. Neither was as inattentive as he seemed. Rill was a difficult fellow, but gifted with the most attuned sense for common room moods that Anthared had ever encountered, while Ilvok…

Odd, that. Ilvok had lately taken to _brooding_. Anthared would have to speak to the lad. It was none of his business – except that while Ilvok travelled in the same group as Yamela, it was very much his business.

"Tomorrow evening, when we make camp," Yamela said. Now, out of their rooms, she _glided_ forth beside him, chin slightly tilted, calm as ice, cocky as only a Green could be. Add an ageless face, and she would be the very image of an Aes Sedai.

A true bully of a woman. She made him proud.

"What about it?"

She patted his arm. "We can spar tomorrow evening, when we make camp. Swords? Daggers? Or unarmed?"

"You need the practice most with the sword," Anthared said. "The dagger you've mastered." More pride; even if cut off from the Source, Yamela was no mouse. Combat _was_ one of her natural talents.

That was how he had ended up her Warder. Even as an Accepted, she had dreamed of the Battle Ajah, and had often come to watch the Warders train. And to train with them.

It began as a joke between him and another Warder, to give an Accepted a blade and show her the easier forms. But she had insisted, and she was not one to be ignored. So he had begun to tutor her.

Then, after Vaserre…

Yamela had shown up in his quarters, shoved bread and juice down his throat, towed him to the practice yard, and bullied him into giving her a lesson. He still had no idea how she had done it. Since his return to Tar Valon – the other Aes Sedai had not let him die decently when Vaserre fell – he had not stirred for food, for water, for any words from his comrades. He had begun to fade away, and only the watchful eyes of others had kept him from his own blade. Yet Yamela, with her two month old shawl draped across her shoulders and the mannerisms of a spoiled daughter, had dragged him from his chambers.

Then asked if he would be her Warder.

He had intended a firm 'no'. Yet she folded her arms across her chest and snapped something about how she would not _allow_ him sit and rot when he should be making himself _useful_, how she needed a Warder who knew what he was about, and how, if he was so keen on dying, he might as well die for a good cause. _For her_.

Somehow 'no' became a ragged 'yes'.

And now he was glad. How could he have trusted anyone else with the care of this impish child? She would rush across the world blind unless she had someone to put a hand on her shoulder and advise caution.

By taking him, she had saved his life. She always gave him a reason to press on. She distracted him from that pit in his mind.

She _was_ a favoured daughter. One who watched over him as much as he did over her. One who would bully him into taking care of himself, whether he liked it or not.

Night was falling, and with it the town quietened. A few drunkards staggered about, the last of the street vendors had given up, and the wheels of a lone cart creaked as they passed. In the distance hooves clopped against the packed dirt street, someone laughed, another shouted. A bit off stood a man who turned and walked off when they exited the inn – Anthared frowned. It could be coincidence – but paranoid Warders like Anthared did not believe in coincidences.

"Where are we going?" he asked Yamela.

"Just walking," she said. She had released his arm once they were out of the inn, and strode along the street with the purpose and dignity of a queen heading for her throne.

_Just walking_? Just to keep him busy, he knew. Out and about, his duty to her would absorb him, hiding dark thoughts and old pains.

He scanned every direction, every dark alley, every shadow, every rooftop, every window and every doorway, every passing man or woman. The Children of the Light would be easily spotted in their white cloaks, but there could be other dangers about. From simple cutthroats to gangs of boisterous drunkards, men who thought a pretty girl just what they needed to brighten their night, and who judged a wiry old man with silver hair like himself to be no hindrance at all.

Remarkably many drunkards saw the silvery hair but missed how he carried a sword.

At the inn, that one goblet of wine – or had it been two? Three? No, Yamela would never have allowed him so many – had not seemed a bad idea. With another experienced sister and her Warders near, and Vaston and Durrak expected back any moment, he had felt safe enough to allow himself that luxury.

But now in the streets, he was reminded that he needed his wits sharp _always_, and cursed himself for a fool. He frightened himself: _this time_, it had only been the one goblet. Or two. But it had happened before, and worse. And the next time… Could the loss of one Aes Sedai drive him so deep into his drink, that he would risk losing another?

_Old fool_.

Not that he intended to let Yamela die before himself. He couldn't go through that again.

"Do you have any ideas?" she asked.

Anthared shook his head, while keeping one eye on a passing man who looked all too sly for his liking. The man felt his scowl and scurried off. Anthared peered into the dimness along the street. Was that a white cloak behind them?

"Then we'll just enjoy the fresh air," Yamela snickered, and wrinkled her nose as she stepped over something on the street which decidedly was not fresh.

It _was_ a white cloak he saw – two of them. He put his hand beneath her elbow. They were barely out of sight from the inn – but there would be no heading back. He was reluctant to lead the Whitecloaks there, and so would Yamela be. So instead…"We can seek out Vaston and Durrak," he told her, attempting to sound casual.

Yamela was not fooled. She glanced over her shoulder, saw what he saw – her younger eyes were better for darkness than his – and gave a nod. It was not hurried, not frightened; she agreed in order to soothe _his_ worries. "Fine," she said. "They're not far… they've been nearby for a while, probably scouting. This way."

She, of course, could lead them blindfolded straight to the twins. They turned into a side street. She took his arm again – not his sword arm. She had more sense than that.

Three white-clad men stepped out of a doorway ahead of them. Anthared swore under his breath. Whitecloaks truly were like _rats_. Always more of them.

He spun around, back towards the larger street, and towed Yamela with him.

"_Gaidin_." Her voice was a whip – if a whip could whisper – and she jerked her arm from his grip. "You will _not_ drag me about as if I'm an unruly _mule_."

He stopped, kept his hands firmly from his sword and his eyes over her shoulder, at the Whitecloaks. He measured the distance, calculated the time necessary to cross it. There would still be time to draw the blade. There would be time to put Yamela behind him.

"_These_ are a couple of fools wearing white, not the Hand of the Light out in force."

He gritted his teeth, but she dismissed his unvoiced protest with a wave of her hand. "Take my arm again, Anthared – _gently_, this time! – and follow my lead."

What was a Warder to do? Had she been his daughter, he would have taken her arm and dragged her, no matter her protests. But one did not treat one's Aes Sedai that way.

"Is there a problem, my lady?" came a harsh voice.

Anthared's hand was on his sword before he knew who had spoken: it was another Whitecloak, out in the larger street, come to block the entrance to the alleyway. The snap in his voice named him an officer. Two Children flanked him.

"Is the lout bothering you?"

"The lout," hissed Yamela, spinning to face the officer, "has had a bit of wine. But no, he's an old friend, and there's no trouble. I'll teach him _manners_ soon enough."

Anthared put a hand on Yamela's shoulder. "You heard the lady," he boomed, with the bluster of a man who had drunk just a bit too much.

"I've just taken him out for a bit of fresh air," Yamela went on, her smile dripping honey as she slapped Anthared's hand from her shoulder.

"A charming tale," murmured the officer – a captain, said his knots of rank. He was advancing steadily into the alley, wearing a triumphant grin that Anthared intensely disliked. "But I don't believe you. I know the inn you're staying at – I know your companions. And I believe you to be a _witch_. A witch of Tar Valon, in service of the Shadow!"

_If he believes that and still comes_, Anthared thought, _he's unhealthily brave_.

He wished he could have placed himself between Yamela and the Whitecloaks, but now there were Whitecloaks in both directions. So he simply drew his sword, and donned a face Death itself would have shrunk back from. As a lad, he had thought Warders practiced such faces in front of mirrors. Soon after his first bonding he had learned better: it was the only natural expression for someone ready to level cities, to tear asunder houses and inhabitants alike, all for the sake of his Aes Sedai. A city? For Vaserre – for _Yamela_ – Anthared would reduce the world to dust. This captain _was_ dust. A meaningless speck of dust on a fine coat, ready to be flicked aside at leisure.

"We'll make it a trade," he said, his smile that of a man preparing to bite off heads – and intending to enjoy it. _That_ smile he _had_ practiced in front of mirrors. "Put a hand on her, and I'll put a foot of steel through your nose."

Yamela made to step forwards and speak, but without looking he held out an arm and held her back. He could feel her scowl – he did not care. He kept smiling at the captain.

The captain met Anthared's gaze. "Warder," he said. "I'd sheathe that sword if I were you. I have crossbowmen hiding behind the crest of every roof within sight and hearing of that inn. You'll be in aim of at least four the moment I call them forth."

Anthared almost raised his eyebrows. The twins would have reported back immediately had they found anything like that while scouting. Which meant, when the twins left, there had been nothing to report.

Clearly, someone had heard a whisper after the twins left, and had moved fast. He hated when such someones were Children of the Light. What a waste of talent.

"Sheathe that sword, Warder. No need to make this uglier than it is."

Anthared sneered. He took no orders from Whitecloaks – only from his Aes Sedai.

"Last warning," the captain said. "Even witches and Warders die of crossbow bolts."

"True," Yamela said. He felt her channel to keep his arm from holding her back, and she stepped daintily past him, coming eye to eye with the Whitecloak. Well, eye to chin. She did not quite have his height. "But only if they strike us. I thank you for the warning." She threw her arms out, and flames roared up in a ring around them and the three nearest Whitecloaks – flames high enough to show the entire town where they were.

Anthared groaned. _Greens_! She _had_ to take the dramatic approach.

But the fire served some good – the Whitecloaks caught outside the flame circle cried out and turned as one to run. Good in the short run – in the long run, they would be back with reinforcements. He began mentally counting down.

He drew closer to her, and hoped she had included a wall of Air in her weaves, to stop those eventual crossbow bolts. She likely had. Yamela might be dramatic and childish, but she was never sloppy.

She reached back and pressed two fingers to his wrist – two fingers, signalling that the twins were coming. Good. Now if only he could keep her in one piece until then…

The remaining Children of the Light looked very much like men wrapped in flows of Air – as white of face now as they were of cloak – and Yamela, fool girl, was amusing herself. "Tell me, captain. How would you like being dropped head-first to the ground?"

The man was raised a bit above the mentioned ground. He twitched and jerked as if trying to break free, his eyes wide.

Anthared, who knew Yamela under her oaths would do no such thing, put his left hand on her shoulder. "Enough games," he whispered in her ear. He was so worried about those crossbows that he practically stood over her.

"Would you _please_ step back, Gaidin? I need room to _breathe_."

Anthared forced himself to step back, battling the image in his mind of a bolt somehow passing her weaves and striking her.

And right then, a bolt did fly past. Right over their heads.

Anthared threw himself at Yamela and drew her down to the ground beneath him, shielding her with his own body. He regretted his lack of armour. He should have been wearing a coat of mail. At least!

"Miss!" chuckled a voice from the roof.

Anthared knew that voice. He raised his head – just as Yamela began shoving at him with an insistent "Let me _up_!".

A second voice followed the first. "Not _my_ fault! I was distracted by your ugly face!"

"Not _my_ fault! As the good Anthared always says, the first rule of projectile weapons is to _look_ where you _aim_ –"

"Look where I aim? How about I show you _aim_ where I _look_ –"

Anthared let Yamela up and rose to his feet, near grimacing at a stab of pain in his bad knee. On opposite sides of the alley, on opposite roofs, stood the twins. Yamela smirked – she had let the fire disappear, and likely her other weaves as well. The eyes of the three Children were ready to pop out of their sockets. The captain's mouth worked as if trying to stutter forth a couple of well-chosen words, but not a sound came out.

Anthared sighed, shoved his sword into its sheathe, and rubbed his forehead. "You could have told me."

"What? And ruin all their fun?"

Anthared looked up. The first of the twins was reloading his crossbow, while the other only grinned like a fool, his own loaded crossbow leaned on his shoulder.

"Get down here, both of you!" Anthared growled – as usual, they leapt to obey. Both abandoned their respective crossbow and dropped over the side of their respective roof, hung by their fingers before letting go, and landed nimble as cats on the ground, which was not far below.

Anthared couldn't tell them apart. Yamela claimed that Durrak's eyes were slightly darker, and Vaston's voice had a musical edge that Durrak's lacked, but Anthared had no ear for music, and he was not about to stand the twins side by side and compare their eye colour every time he needed one or the other. He tended to just call them by either name, and if they grinned and blinked and corrected him he would shrug and accede to whatever they said. He supposed they lied about who was who as often as they told the truth. That would have been just like them.

Now, the two wore identical dark green doublets, dark grey cloaks; identical belts and scabbards, and identical grins. Which did not make it easier.

"Haven't we been good Warders, Yam?"

"We found the crossbowmen –"

"– snuck up on them –"

"– knocked them out, tied them up –"

"– and stole what crossbows we didn't destroy."

"Good Warders," smiled Yamela, her eyes bright with amusement.

"We didn't kill any. No need to upset them more than necessary," the first of the two said, turning to Anthared as if seeking his approval as much as Yamela's.

Anthared gave a grunt which could have meant anything. The twins took it for unbounded praise; they knew what would have followed if he had been displeased.

He was not displeased. By the twins' standards, this looked like they had actually done some _thinking_.

"Time to go," Anthared voiced gruffly. "Time to alert Nevien Sedai and leave the inn, leave this town."

"Nevien won't like it," Yamela said. "She despises Whitecloaks."

"They're a bothersome rabble, but we have more important things to do than fight them. Nevien Sedai knows that. Durrak, area report?"

"A couple of 'Cloaks here and there –"

"– safely tied and gagged –"

"– and we know where."

Yamela had never protested his taking charge of the younger Warders. As long as he never ordered anything which countermanded _her_ orders. And if he did, they were more likely to listen to _her_. A shame, that. He liked thinking he had the two well leashed, for between them they had little more sense than Yamela did. They shared her recklessness. They were too confident in their own ability to pull her out of whatever mess they swaggered behind her into. Like her, they took chances, played games.

They would not have played any games nor taken any chances, had they known what it felt like to lose an Aes Sedai.

But Yamela _encouraged_ them. Oh, he was glad she had left their schooling in his hands. He would teach them sense.

When he died, Yamela would be well cared for.

"Towards the inn," he said. Yamela's lack of protest meant that she agreed. "Vaston, scout. Durrak, tail."

Vaston – Anthared supposed it was Vaston, but Yamela rolled her eyes in a way which suggested it was Durrak – saluted smartly and sprinted off to make sure the way was clear.

"What about the Whitecloaks?" asked the remaining twin – for simplicity's sake, Anthared would think of him as Durrak.

Anthared scowled at the three Children as if that would make them go away. The two soldiers looked like they wanted to, but the captain just scowled back.

"I'll put them to sleep," Yamela said, and strode up to the three prisoners. She touched each forehead, and her weaves of Air gently lowered each to the ground. When she was done, she met Anthared's gaze: "Noone is to know I can do that."

Anthared gave a curt nod. Beside him, Durrak dipped in an elegant little bow.

"Then let's go," Yamela said, and led the way after Vaston. "They'll wake groggy in the morning, their memories a bit jumbled, and likely think they've had too much to drink."

"You modified their memories?"

"It's a side effect which plays into the '_no one_ is to know I can do that' concept."

Anthared, who was at her heels like a shadow, grunted. "No need to glare at me, Yamela. If I found out you were Black Ajah and kept a pet Forsaken hidden in the heart of the Tower, I wouldn't tell a soul, and you know it."

Yamela actually giggled. _Giggled_! She was such a child.

Anthared turned his attention to the task at hand. Whatever she was, Aes Sedai or child or trolloc in disguise, he would see her safe out of this town if it was the last thing he did.

Then he would teach Vaston and Durrak a thing or two about running pranks on him.


	4. Warder of the Black Sister

**Warder of the Black Sister**

"The things I do for my Aes Sedai," gritted Ilvok.

He stood in the rain, hidden by the shadows and his shifting Warder's cloak. Beneath it his hand gripped his sword, so tight that he doubted he could release if he tried. How long had he stood there? His cloak had long since soaked through. How long had he watched that door? Since sunset, and now dawn approached.

A good thing he hardly needed sleep.

Nevien had told him to wait there, to do nothing until she returned, and – and he could do nothing else. He would have given both his legs and his swordarm to be beside her, in that shabby old house, facing whatever she faced with blade in hand.

But she had told him to stay where he was, no matter what happened. And he stayed. Still as a statue and a stone grimace on his face, he stayed.

She had entered the house frightened, but he had stayed. She had been terrified to the point of sobs an hour ago – and Light damn him, he stayed.

Now she was in pain.

He stayed. He gnashed his teeth, but did not shift a foot. He wished he could at least have raised a hand to scratch at his shaved head, but he dared not. Once he began moving, the tiniest motion, he might not stop.

He did not know her any more. He had agreed to be Warder to a Green sister, a sister he had fallen in love with for her wit and smile, her frankness and her courage. Most of all her courage. He had _worshiped_ her – and she called him 'my heart' and loved him and had bonded him within a month. Her first Warder had been a man named Besun, and she had loved them both. The idea would have made him balk before, to share a woman with anyone, but it had hardly made him blink. It had made Nevien happy, and that was that.

Light, he wanted to storm into that house. She was in near enough pain to make _him_ cry out, and fear had pulsed from that core of sensations in the back of his mind the entire night.

He did not know himself any more, either. Who was this man who stood idle while a woman – his love – his bloody _Aes Sedai_ – spasmed in agony merely fifty paces away?

Yet she had told him to stay.

--

She came out hanging by an arm across Rill's shoulders. Ilvok rushed forward to take her from the other Warder – she was taller by a head than Rill, and the man seemed relieved to be rid of the burden.

"It was only pain," Rill reported while he rolled his shoulders, and then nonchalantly dusted off his coat. Ilvok wanted to strike him. "She is unharmed."

As if Ilvok couldn't tell. She was exhausted, too weary to channel if he was any judge, but the pain as gone as if it had never been.

When he ran a hand down her face her eyes slid open, and she smiled. "Ilvok, my heart."

He could have wept.

"To our rooms, Ilvok."

He hoisted her easily into his arms and strode into the night, away from that awful place. Rill strolled casually beside him.

--

"You did nothing," Ilvok said to Rill as they sat at a table in Nevien's chambers. Technically, the chambers belonged to Bessal Sedai, advisor to the local lord. Bessal had her own wing in the castle, including fine guest rooms. They had been lucky to get Nevien in without attracting the other Aes Sedai's attention. Or, perhaps luck had little to do with it. Whatever else he was, Rill was an excellent sneak.

Nevien slept. The two Warders played cards. Or, Rill played cards. Right then, Ilvok couldn't have told one card from another if he had tried.

"You know there was nothing I could do," Rill drawled. He was winning. He always won – he always cheated.

Ilvok replied in a snarl. "Nothing you _would_ do –"

"Come now," snapped Rill, and slammed a hand hard on the table. "She would be _devastated_ if one of her Warders hurt the other, wouldn't she?"

Ilvok looked aside.

"Let us play cards, brother Warder. Like friends."

Ilvok gritted his teeth. He glared at his cards and fought an urge to shove them down Rill's throat. Oh, the man was Nevien's Warder, and Ilvok could not doubt that Rill would fight as hard for Nevien's best as he would himself, but Rill and he had very different outlooks on what was Nevien's best. Rill put up with things from… from _certain people_… things that would have driven Ilvok into a berserker rage, had Nevien only allowed it.

"We have a new mark," Rill announced. "A pair of them."

What the man had been before Nevien took him on, Ilvok did not want to know. He was not Warder trained, but not without skill. Too much skill to have been a simple cutthroat. He could ferret out things in cities in a single night which would have taken Ilvok a year to catch. But to Rill, killing was a pastime; a new mark was a game. He delighted in causing pain.

Ilvok despised him. "You know I'll do nothing until _she_ tells me herself."

"Oh, I know," snickered the other. "But let me tell you _who_. One is about my height, slightly plump, female, favours grey silk and has…" he finished with a bad poet's flourish; "Hair like molten gold!"

Ilvok stared at him, his mouth suddenly dry. It couldn't be…

"The other is taller than you, built like a bull with a brick wall for a face… or perhaps his face's been smashed against a brick wall sometime. He hardly says a word, favours his right leg –"

"_Light_," prayed Ilvok, though without any faith in the word. He had stopped believing years ago.

"– and wears a Warder's cloak."

Ilvok still wanted to strangle the man. It was not a feeling that ever truly went away. It just swelled a bit now and then. "Why?" he demanded harshly.

"Do we need a reason?" Rill chuckled. "At last, a worthy challenge! These two will be _missed_, and we are associated with them. It will need a _delicate_ touch, and –"

"_Why_?" repeated Ilvok, and rose. "Tell me, or I swear I'll –" He reined his temper. If his voice rose he might wake Nevien, and she needed to rest. "Tell me," he repeated, with a firm leash on his voice, if not his temper. "Or I might _forget_ who holds your bond, brother Warder."

"Now _that_ could be interesting," Rill whispered, the snicker gone completely. "But I'll tell you why." His voice was sharp like broken glass. His eyes glowed. "Because the Great Lord wills it. And that is all the reason anyone should ever need."

"I don't serve your Great Lord," hissed Ilvok. He tightened his hands around the playing cards.

"Oh, but _she_ does," Rill reminded him. "And you serve her. _Devotedly_."

Nevien did. Ilvok had the feeling that the rewards of her service were not at all what she had expected, but still, she did.

And he _did_ serve _her_. A dog, willingly leashed. A sword in her hand, expertly wielded. He could not abandon her, could not betray her. If anything happened to her… his life was forfeit the moment she died. He did not fear to die – but the idea of _her_ dying… he couldn't bear it.

_The things I do for my Aes Sedai_.

He kept her secrets, and he served. Oh, the disgust for what she did was strong, and the thought to betray her, or even kill her, had entered his mind more than once. But such thoughts had always sickened him more than anything she ever asked him to do.

_Had_ always.

He slammed the crumpled cards onto the table. "You win," he snarled, and stalked off.

He could not be sure that he had meant only the card game.

--

When Nevien awoke, Ilvok sat cross-legged at the foot end of her large bed. His sword lay across his knees, a whetstone was in his hand. Such work had always soothed him. Watching her sleep had _usually_ soothed him. Now it made him edgy. There he sat, with his sword out and a foulest of Darkfriends sleeping at his feet. Would he use the blade? Could he? Or would he simply sit there, honing the already fine edge, watching her sleep?

He knew the answer – he watched her sleep. She lay only half beneath the white silk sheets, but still wore her gown from the night before – the bodice had been loosened for comfort, but that was all. Green silk, embroidered in silver and black. It suited her well.

The last few years had hollowed out her cheeks and dulled the luster of her hair, but to him she remained beautiful. Few would have thought her more than plain to begin with – but to him, she ever had been beautiful. She carried the ageless look, a sharp chin, a sharper nose, and straight raven-black hair, every line of her face straight and pure as if chiselled from marble by a master carver. A hard face, which no longer laughed as much as it had.

She drifted awake, but did not need to open her eyes to know he was there. "You are…" she searched for a word and found none. Not a surprise; he could not begin to describe it himself. She let the matter drop, and sighed. "So Rill told you."

Ilvok nodded, and worked the whetstone along his blade. Long, slow strokes. _Calm_. He was a lion at rest. He was the morning dew settling on grass; cool, crystal drops on green stalks and leaves.

Nevien shook her head and sat up to face him. "He shouldn't have."

"You would hide things from me?" The sound of worked metal was almost as accusing as his voice.

"Shelter you, my heart," she amended his words gently. "I would shelter you. You don't need to know. It pains you to know."

"That is why he tells me."

"I will speak to him."

"No," he gritted. "I _must_ know. Better that I _know_. Nevien, you…" He paused his work, breathed in, closed his eyes to block tears. Light, he would not cry. He was ice, he was –

He felt her hand cup his cheek, and his eyes opened to meet hers. Against his will, the tears welled again. One began down his cheek. But with his gaze caught in hers, he could think of nothing else. He would drown in those eyes, and gladly.

She smiled. "Speak to me, my heart."

He did. Words were a current he had been thrown into and caught by. His voice came strained; "You're frightened – and I can do nothing. You hurt – and you tell me to… to _stand aside_." His voice almost broke. "And the things you've _done_…"

"Oh, Ilvok…"

"Where will it end, Nevien?" He had asked her before. She always evaded the question. "It's gone too far. If not before, then _now_. A sister, and a Warder. Will you truly see it through?"

"I must," she said. He would have expected his fierce Green sister to utter such words with her chin tilted high, her eyes firm; with determination and courage strong among the emotions riding in his head. But she said them as she fell back onto her pillows and yanked the silk sheets up to hide her face.

He grabbed the sheet and snatched it away. "You must nothing. Why do you obey them? Why do you _fear_ them? You must know I would –"

"You can't shield me against these people," Nevien told him, and looked sharply up at him. "And you don't understand. I must. I'm not glad of it, but I _must_."

"The Grey sister is your friend," he said softly, and tried to keep the anger from his words. "We came here for you to visit her. You two sit for _hours_ when you meet… you drink tea, and you giggle like novices. When we came here… was _this_ the real reason?"

"I only learned of it last night." Her face remained smooth, but there was so much despair in her bond that he wanted to take her in his arms and shush her, tell her everything would be well – but he had not been raised a liar.

And, a voice in his head reminded him; it was her own fault. Somewhere along the line, she had _chosen_ this. He never had.

Why did he go along with it? Why did he not stop it? Stop _her_?

Why? Because the thought made him queasy. He _could_ not.

_The things I do for my Aes Sedai._

"If I don't, they'll just send someone else," she whispered. "Someone who'll make her suffer. I'll… put something in her tea to make her sleep. And before she wakes… at least she won't suffer."

"And her Warder?" gritted Ilvok. He wanted to strike her – no! Never _that_. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she saw sense. "What of him?"

"Rill will take him fishing at the riverside," Nevien said. "It's too far for him to feel much, but he'll know when his Aes Sedai loses consciousness, and he'll likely spin and head back. Rill will put a knife in his back. He won't expect it. And Bessal will never need to feel him die."

"And the body goes in the river?" Ilvok supposed, to which Nevien nodded. "And Bessal Sedai's body?"

"There will be a Grey Man," Nevien whispered. "And, then, _his_ body. He will kill Bessal as she sleeps, and I will kill him in turn. But it was necessary to be rid of her Warder. He has too sharp eyes, Masrogen does."

The door opened, and Rill slid inside the room. "What are you two saying? She's _upset_." He spoke more to Ilvok than to Nevien.

"I'm fine, Rill," Nevien assured him.

Rill sneered. "He's having a soft moment, isn't he? He's lost his nerve."

Ilvok carefully moved his fingers away from his blade. No, he would _not_ kill the man. Nevien would never forgive him if he did. Nevien would be _devastated_. Which led him to another question. One he had wanted to ask for a long time.

He took a deep breath, and fixed his Aes Sedai with his eyes. "Why, Nevien, did you ever bond _him_?"

"I was told to," Nevien said. "To give me a Warder I could trust."

"One who reports your every step." Ilvok drew breath. "And why do you trust _me_? I know too much."

"Know?" snickered Rill. "You don't know a goose from a feather! There are libraries devoted to what you _don't know_. For example, do you know why Besun was killed?"

Besun, Nevien's first Warder, had been a far sight preferable to Rill. A good Warder, and a good friend. Ilvok had never fought beside a better man, and had been proud to do so.

He gave a curt shake of his head, and curled his hands into fists in his lap. Hands positioned carefully _not_ around the hilt of his sword. Not around Rill's throat either – more the pity.

"Nevien here decided she didn't like a task. So she _dawdled_ a bit. That's why he died. They wanted to make a point. And you're likely to end up the same way…" The man had the nerve to chuckle. "…considering how our dear Aes Sedai seems to have rediscovered her _conscience_." The look he directed at Nevien suggested she was a bug he wanted to make dance for his circus – or simply crush.

No-one looked at Nevien that way and lived. Ilvok flowed to his feet, sword in hand, spinning to face the smaller man.

"Ilvok, _hold_!" Nevien's cry was a whip across his mind.

He froze where he was, unable to move. He breathed instead, tight as a drawn bow from toes to nose, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to leap. A loyal dog indeed, letting his leash restrain him so easily even when he… truly… _wanted_… to bite.

Rill grinned at him. "How do you like it, Ilvok?" he asked. "You feel that? Doing something you don't want to do? That's Compelling. It works through the bond. She's been doing that to you more and –"

"Silence, Rill!" screeched Nevien, a hand whipping out as if to slap the man.

Slammed hard over the face with Air, Rill flew halfway across the room.

Ilvok found he could move again. He turned to Nevien. She sat with her hand over her mouth, eyes wide in shock at what she had done. She looked the image of an Aes Sedai, horrified at what had happened to her Warder. But he did not see that. What he saw…

Compelled. He had wondered why she trusted him with so much freedom, when one false word from him would have set a noose around her neck. Perhaps he had never been as free as he had imagined. Perhaps… perhaps she did not simply trust his devotion.

It was a bitter thought.

On the floor, Rill moaned and curled into a ball.

"Is it true?" Ilvok asked.

Nevien blinked, forgetting Rill and turning to him. "Ilvok, my heart, it's been _necessary_. It… it was for your own good." She twisted her hands into the sheet. "For your own _good_."

Ilvok felt her every emotion through the bond – it would be very difficult for her to lie to him. She could lie, he had discovered. She was good at it. But at that moment, she was not lying. He felt her despair, her affection, her fear that he would reject her.

And he remembered the morning Besun had died. He remembered her grief. That had been real, too. And he did not doubt she would grieve him as much as she had Besun.

So perhaps she _had_ done it for his own good. Or, for what she perceived as his good.

He weighed the sword in his hand. Why had he not struck her down when first learning of her allegiance? The blade was heavier now – burdened with the memory of innocent blood spilled, decent people's blood spilled. All at the word of this woman, but in the name of a master he did not want to serve.

She was his Aes Sedai, and everything else was irrelevant.

Almost. _Almost_, for had it been completely irrelevant, it would not have bothered him. He wished it had not bothered him. But it did.

Compelled. It explained much. But even without it – to fight her would be to fight himself.

Moving in a daze he put his sword back in the scabbard, picked up the fallen whetstone from the floor and dropped it into a leather pouch on his belt. He took the step up to the head end of the bed, and leaned to kiss her. She was all smiles after that, and he turned to stride away.

"Then you will not fight me, my heart?"

He halted – how could she echo his thoughts so precisely? Eyes closed, he searched within himself. What were his limits? How much could he endure, before he would either break or take action? What action could he take?

A thought of Bessal Sedai drifted across his mind, and he almost flinched. And Bessal's Warder, Masrogen, a man who Rill had acutely classified as a possible relation of brick walls, but a good man all the same. A good friend.

Bessal, who Nevien herself loved like a sister, but would now kill.

Would Ilvok stand beside her?

His allegiance had been to the Tower, to all Aes Sedai, before he had even bonded Nevien. To murder one of the sisters… it had gone too far. _Much too far!_

It was time to decide – but his head held only swarms of emotion, no decisions. Above all else soared his devotion for Nevien, a banner of colour over a field of chaos and battle. He watched the banner and tried to picture himself tearing it down. The thought made him want to howl, fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness. He thought of fighting on beneath that banner… and he still wanted to howl.

However he turned, there was only one answer to give her.

"No, my dearest." He smiled at her over his shoulder, and wondered what his bond contained; his face he could master, but the bond..? It had to be in as much turmoil as his own head. "I could never _fight_ you."

Nevien smiled too – the bond was relief and affection, soothed worries.

On the floor, Rill groaned again, and began to move. He made as if to rise – or at least, climb onto all fours. Ilvok, oddly enough, had no urge to kick the man. None at all.

He left the room, strode through the sitting room and left her quarters.

He knew of the sharp pain as soon as she did. Fingers, seizing her arm in a vicelike grip. Rill was the only one in the room with her, so Rill must have gripped her arm.

She did not free herself. He would have known had the pain lessened. For a few moments, the pain remained. Her mood shifted, though; from budding calm to worry, to fear, to grim determination. Grief stabbed her like a blade – and her arm was released.

The bond winked out like a candle as she hid herself from him, and Ilvok stumbled – he felt as if he had stepped through ice and fallen into a black winter lake… trapped beneath the surface, cold, water in his lungs, all sense of direction lost…

She _hid_ herself from him!

She never hid from him. Never. Had it been Besun and her alone together, he would not have thought twice of it, but Besun was dead since years, and not once since then had she hid the bond. _Not once_. Not ever _once_.

He stood frozen, forcing himself to draw air into uncooperative lungs. What had Rill said to her? What had caused that sudden grief? Could it be – he stopped the thought, and dismissed it firmly. She would not. She would _never_.

He listened, and heard the door to her quarters being opened and closed. Open long enough to let two people through. He began moving again, briskly, all while shaking his head and arguing with himself. His heart drummed war in his chest, his lungs felt like fish netted and dragged up into the air, straining to breathe. Could it be? _Could_ it?

Rill gripping her arm, surely speaking to her. The sudden grief. And she had dimmed the bond. She never did that.

He moved quicker. Had Rill finally convinced her..?

_Yes_. His head broke the wintery water's surface, and the answer to that question felt like the first gasp of air. Yes – he could not explain how, but he knew it in his bones. They were coming for him. Rill he did not fear. But what he had just learned of Nevien… she would tell him to stand still while Rill put a knife in him, and he would do it.

_But if she can't see me_, he thought grimly, _she can't Compel me_.

He increased his pace to a trot, then a run. The door from her quarters, into the corridor, opened behind him just as he turned the corner. He heard Rill's boots flying across the carpets, accompanied by the lighter fall of slippers.

He gritted his teeth. He had kept her secrets faithfully. Was _this_ to be his reward? He did not know if he wanted to howl with anger or with anguish. Part of him wanted to accept whatever she had planned for him. Nevien, his beautiful, dearest Nevien…

His Nevien, who plotted to murder her best friend. He berated himself for not thinking straight, beating back emotions. If she turned on Bessal… then there was nothing she would not do. Oh, she would weep herself to sleep over it. But what difference would that make, when the deed was done?

It would be an odd battle. If he faced her, he would lose. She would know if he approached her. So there was only one thing to do. Oh, _Light have mercy_.

He ran towards the rooms of Bessal Sedai.

Ilvok would no longer keep his Aes Sedai's secrets.

--

_Author's Note_:

To be continued through the eyes of the Grey sister's Warder. That is, if there's any interest in another chapter...?

(insert evil cackle here)


	5. Warder of the Grey Sister

**Warder of the Grey Sister**

Masrogen had dozed, leaned against the wall next to the door, but when startlement streamed through the bond he whipped his eyes up and reached for the blade at his side.

Nothing showed on Bessal's face. She sipped her tea, smiled at her companion – a Red called Watene, a tall woman with more bosom than manners, still in travel cloak and road dust – and said: "Masrogen, check the corridor please. I believe Nevien comes. Someone is channelling."

Masrogen unfolded his arms, opened the door, and peered out. Coming down the corridor at a flat run was Ilvok, one of Nevien's Warders.

Masrogen gripped his sword again – Ilvok ran as if he had a Darkhound at his heels.

"What is it?" demanded Bessal from inside the room – she felt his sudden alertness as easily as he had felt her startlement.

Just at that moment, Nevien herself came around the far corner.

"Ilvok, _still_!"

Ilvok's dug his heels into the floor and stopped as sharply as humanely possible. Greens often commanded their Warders like others commanded dogs, and the Warders never seemed to mind. Nevien and her two were no exceptions – but all Masrogen understood of it was that it was none of his business.

Nevien strode into the corridor, breathless as if she too had been running – something she was clearly not used to. Her other Warder, Rill, strutted and grinned wildly at her shoulder. "As you see, Ilvok," she said casually, "Masrogen seems to be in one piece. Then I assume Bessal is, too?" She offered Masrogen a smile. She was a plain woman with hard features, but she did have a pretty smile. "Ilvok came running to warn you –"

But Masrogen paid her little mind. His gaze was caught on Ilvok's face; now, the man looked as if the Darkhound had just gripped his neck. _Why_? Masrogen frowned.

"Oh, Ilvok," Nevien said as she reached her other Warder, and set a hand to his shoulder. "You _fool_, rushing into things." She gave him an affectionate – almost simpering – smile. "Now, come with me, heart." With an arm hooked into his she led him forwards. He began moving with a small stagger, like a man suddenly released from his shackles.

A sharp elbow jabbed into Masrogen's side. "What are you staring at, oaf? Move aside!" Watene shoved her way past him. Masrogen did not need to look to know that Bessal came right beside her. Bessal touched his arm, gently, as if to make up for the Red sister's rudeness.

Bessal did not like the Red, and neither did Masrogen. Bessal thought her rash and tactless. Masrogen… Masrogen had noticed how the Red looked at him; like he was a disease which, though it could not be eradicated, at least should be kept leashed.

He stepped out of Bessal's way, but warily kept close. With Ilvok's face so contorted…

"Is this the _Green_ you spoke of, Bessal?" asked Watene. She made the Ajah sound like another disease.

"No need for that, Watene," admonished Bessal calmly.

Bessal was the stronger. Watene lowered her eyes.

"I didn't expect you so early, Nevien," Bessal greeted her friend.

"Neither did I," chuckled Nevien. She wore green silk, brocaded in black and silver, which looked hastily donned. In fact, she appeared rather dishevelled altogether. _Peculiar_, for a woman usually so neat. "But Ilvok sniffed danger… well. It seems he was mistaken. And who have we here? A… _Red_?" Her voice coated in poison at the last word. Still, all smiles, she glided towards them on Ilvok's arm, composure returned to her face, her breathing almost back to normal.

Masrogen was not fooled. To learn an Aes Sedai's true mood, study her Warders. One of her Warders was terrified – or at least desperate. The other… Rill had always been an odd one, difficult to read. He looked expectant.

Masrogen had agreed to go fishing with Rill later that day. He enjoyed fishing more than Rill's company, but he did not have much against him. Rill might have rough edges, but after all, he was a Warder. Ilvok would stay with the two Aes Sedai, so they would be safe.

Except, why _was_ Ilvok in such a fright?

"So who is she, Bessal?" asked Nevien – without addressing the Red sister directly.

"Watene Gamyrrin. She's –" Also Bessal had noted something strange. It did not reach her voice or face, but the bond hid nothing from Masrogen. "– just passing through. But hearing that an Aes Sedai lived in the castle, she couldn't settle for staying at a simple inn."

"I felt compelled to visit a sister when I could," smiled Watene.

"I'm sure you did," Bessal said graciously, while her bond reeked of annoyance.

And then it happened.

The image would be burned into Masrogen's eyes until the day he died.

Suddenly, Ilvok spun and drove his belt knife into Nevien's heart.

Suddenly, a Warder turned on his Aes Sedai, and in one motion killed her.

Suddenly, so suddenly, Aes Sedai and Warder were collapsing to the floor. She with astonishment on her face, still clutched tight against his chest; he, fingers cramped about the knife between them as he fell atop her, not a mark on his body, but plainly as dead as she.

Masrogen stood stunned. Behind him, Watene gave a disgusted sound, and Bessal – Bessal was as stunned as he, but she only let it show in a quick blink of her grey eyes.

Rill was the first to move. With an inhuman howl and knives in both hands he hurled himself right at Masrogen.

He sought death.

Masrogen moved instinctively. He shoved the two Aes Sedai behind him – Bessal did not mind, but from Watene came an indignant yell. No matter: he drew his blade and stood grim to face the other Warder. He did not like facing a Warder – but if it had to be, it had to be. It would be crueller to try to spare Rill. The man was already a living dead.

Rill was wrapped up in flows of Air – one of the two Aes Sedai had channelled. Masrogen did not think it had been Bessal, for there was always a _feel_ to her when she channelled, a tinge of exuberance, and it was not there now. Instead, there was a small fist punching him hard on the arm.

"_Shove_ me again, Warder," snapped Watene, "and I'll tie you up beside him and flog you until you _howl_."

"You wouldn't _dare_!" hissed Bessal, with shocking vehemence – shocking, even to herself. She blinked and smoothed her face and voice in a moment. The fury which had flashed across her bond dissipated as her eyes fell again on Nevien, and she swayed. Masrogen suppressed an urge to go to her, steady her; she would not appreciate it. Not in front of Watene Sedai.

Rill hung in the air, too tightly held to tremble. He clearly wanted to tremble, thrash, fight something, fight and die. He clearly wanted to wail – but all he could do was gasp feebly for air.

"Give him a bit of room," Bessal instructed. She set a discreet hand to the wall to steady herself. "Watene, give the man some room to breathe!"

Watene shrugged. From the look of it, she did just that – but also stuffed a gag in the other Warder's mouth.

"Light," whispered Bessal, and her gaze flickered involuntarily across Nevien again. She felt ill – shocked and terrified and disbelieving until bile rose in her throat and she wanted to throw up – and all this trickled through the bond and into Masrogen's own head. Her shock and nausea echoed his own, enhanced it. He gripped the hilt of his sword as hard as he could, but otherwise could not move, could not take his eyes off Ilvok and Nevien.

He could have sworn the two had been lovers – Nevien had always had a way of touching Ilvok, almost by mistake, as she passed him or stood beside him; and he had looked at her and smiled and his eyes had been warm with tenderness, melted like those of a man gladly trapped.

But more than that, Ilvok had been her _Warder_.

How was it even possible?

And Masrogen had been about to leave Bessal in his care. Thank the Light he had not.

"Who was that man?" Watene asked.

Bessal held her tongue, outwardly utterly composed. Inside, she had flinched.

She was usually quick to reply. He shot her a quick glance – and was rewarded with a just as quick glare. A reminder of his duties, and more cue than he needed. He understood: Watene did not know a sister had just been killed by her own Warder. And it would be for the best if Watene never learned. If the Reds never learned.

Calmly he said; "We don't know, Watene Sedai."

Watene only waited for Bessal to speak. Warders were below her notice.

Bessal sighed. "Watene, I know how you Reds feel of Warders, but my Warder speaks for us both. I don't plan to repeat every word he says just because you want to be a stubborn mule."

For a diplomat, Bessal had the ability to be wonderfully blunt sometimes. Masrogen admired that – bluntness often made people stop staring at their own noses, if only because it shocked them.

"_Warders_. We've just seen how _good_ Warders truly are," Watene went on, waving a hand at Rill. She sounded perversely pleased. Not at all as if a sister had just died. Of course, in Watene's eyes it had only been a _Green_. The Red strutted almost like a peacock as she went on: "Greens and their _Warders_. Did her absolutely no good at all! No, a sister needs to rely on herself for protection. Her own skills must suffice when –"

"_Watene_." Bessal's voice came sharp enough to make Watene flinch. She drew a deep breath. "Take the Warder to the steward. Tell them to keep him contained – and well treated, mind – until we can bring him back to the Tower."

Watene's face suggested that she was about to protest.

Bessal drew herself up.

Watene smoothed her red silk skirts, glared, smoothed her skirts again, and stalked off. A nonchalant hitching motion of her hand caused Rill to be… dragged… along behind her, his feet shuffling over the floor as the weaves of Air pulled at his torso.

When the Red was safely out of sight, Bessal sagged against the wall and sat heavily down on the floor.

"Light protect you, Nevien," she whispered, and blinked back the moisture in her eyes. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "May the Creator shelter you in His hand." No Aes Sedai serenity now. Not when they were alone. Not when her best friend since near forty years lay dead. "Light… Masrogen, _Light_, what did the man _do_?"

"He killed her," Masrogen said tonelessly.

"He was her – her _Warder_," Bessal whimpered. Then she looked suddenly at Masrogen. Her fear was a living thing, which leapt out of the knot of emotion in the back of his head and began writhing like a snake.

Masrogen fell to his knees, lay his sword at her feet, and bowed his head. He did not know what to say, but he rarely spoke if it could be avoided, and was perfectly comfortable remaining silent.

They both turned as one to look at the two dead. Horror, shock, sorrow, confusion, all these things passed both ways through their bond. Shock was Masrogen's own as much as hers. But sorrow was mostly hers. Confusion mostly his.

Masrogen gathered his sword, sheathed it, and rose. He no longer rose smoothly; he had taken a wound in his thigh which left his right leg stiff, and no Aes Sedai had been around to heal the thing, before it was too late to restore it fully. His running on the blasted thing, carrying an unconscious Bessal, had likely made it worse. It had been infected and the fever had near killed him before he reached help – help for her as much as for himself.

He frowned, but not because of the old wound. In his mind he still saw Ilvok's terrified face. It was as if the other Warder had wanted to say something, but had not been able to.

"No one can know," whispered Bessal.

Masrogen nodded.

"If the Reds learned…"

Masrogen made a face.

"Do you think… he was a Darkfriend?"

Masrogen raised his eyebrows. He began moving towards Ilvok and Nevien, and as he walked he shook his head.

"They say it's impossible to tell. Darkfriends are just like the rest of us… Masrogen, he stabbed – he stabbed _his own Aes Sedai_."

"He was terrified," Masrogen murmured. He had knelt down beside the two, and rolled Ilvok over and away from the Aes Sedai. "Why?"

This needed to be tidied up before anyone saw it. He pried the knife from Ilvok's grip, cut the leather thongs to the sheath, and pulled it free from the belt, taking both knife and sheath. Watene was likely the only person in the castle to not recognize Ilvok as Nevien's Warder. For anyone to find Ilvok with the killing blade in his hand… it simply would not do.

And if the knife was gone, but Ilvok carried an empty sheath… that would not do either. Masrogen would ask Bessal to burn it. Melt it with the Power until it was nothing but a lump of unrecognizable metal.

They would need to figure a way to match Watene's story – unknown man kills Aes Sedai despite one Warder present – with their own story: unknown man kills Aes Sedai with both Warders present. It was simple enough; get Watene away as soon as possible, and smudge the details. Bessal would know what to say, and to whom. The lord of the castle and his staff would accept any story she presented, even had they all seen it happen differently.

"Nevien channelled at him," Bessal said. "If I didn't know her, I'd have thought… it almost looked like…" She shook her head to deny whatever she had been about to say. "No, Nevien wouldn't have. I must be in shock, confused."

Nevien had been her best friend. Bessal did not have many friends.

"A good thing Watene would not have recognized it, in any case. It had to do with the bond. Perhaps… there has to be some explanation. _Has to_."

Masrogen let her talk, listening with half an ear. To voice her thoughts soothed her.

"I must tell a Green," Bessal murmured. "One of the Green Sitters. I don't know who is Head of their Ajah."

"Is that wise?" No one would be surprised to find one Warder dead from the shock, and one gone mad with grief. So that Ilvok lay dead beside the Aes Sedai, his face contorted, was perfectly explainable. That he had blood over his garments was also explainable.

They would need to blame a Grey Man, to explain how the assailant came past both Warders. It would not be the first Grey Man incident in the castle. Masrogen himself had spotted one coming into the lord's audience chamber only two weeks past, while Bessal and the lord sat in deep discussion.

Masrogen grimaced. This meant he would need to do the talking. He was no good at talking.

"I need to tell _someone_," Bessal nearly wailed. "And this is a matter for the Ajah. The Greens know most of Warders. Perhaps they can puzzle this out. Light, her own…" She glanced at Masrogen as if she had never seen him before, then firmly shook her head. "Her own Warder." She began an unsteady climb to her feet.

Masrogen strode swiftly to her side to assist her and took her elbow – and she flinched.

She _flinched_.

He did not let go. He only looked at her, made his eyes steady. She must have felt his hurt through the bond. He had done _nothing_ to warrant her flinch. He had been aiding her to rise – to enter carriages, to mount horses – since she bonded him, near twenty years ago.

She murmured an apology and let him practically lift her to her feet. She made a show of brushing her skirts, and then raised her hands to tidy her already perfectly arranged hair.

Two liveried men came hurriedly jogging down the corridor – at the sight of Nevien and Ilvok they stopped, and stared. The eldest, a portly man with a pointed beard, recovered first. He shook himself, and turned to Bessal – Masrogen held the sheath and knife carefully where they could not be seen, in the hand he held at the small of Bessal's back, as if to support her. She stood stiff as a board.

"Are you well, Bessal Sedai?" asked the portly servant with a bow. "You're not… harmed?"

"I am unhurt," Bessal told him. He looked immensely relieved.

"Wh-what ha-happened?" stammered the other. He bit hard on his own knuckles and spoke around them, in his shock forgetting the use of both titles and manners. He caught himself, blushed a fierce red, bowed so that he almost fell, and amended; "I mean, Aes Sedai, if you would… if you…"

"I felt someone seizing the Source in the corridor," Bessal said. "And I came out…" She gestured to the pair of dead, and shuddered. "She never had time to shield herself. Her Warders…"

As Bessal drifted into silence, Masrogen reluctantly took up the thread. "It must have been a Grey Man," he gritted. "To get past her Warders."

No one could have known that Masrogen's words might as well have been those of a trained bird; he lied where she could not. Saying what Bessal wanted him to say was a well-honed skill.

The portly man's face drenched of what colour was in it. He blinked uneasily at Masrogen – and not only because of his words, Masrogen thought. Bessal told him he often put people off balance. It was, she reasoned, because he was _too still_. She seemed amused by it, and Masrogen himself did not mind. People off balance were easier to deal with.

"I believe…" Bessal said, gently as if speaking to a startled animal, "that you will take care of the bodies, Master Jennings? I have another Aes Sedai guest at the moment, who will be heading for Tar Valon tomorrow, escorting Nevien's remaining Warder… you may prepare the bodies and send them with her and an escort. Unless your lord disapproves..?"

The portly man – Master Jennings, was it? Masrogen had no memory for names – dipped in a bow. "I know my lord well enough, and he would never deny you something like this, Aes Sedai. It will be as you wish. Shall I send someone with some tea for you? To soothe your nerves?"

He did not say that Bessal looked pale. Bessal had sunny hair, and a complexion to match. It took a lot of pallor to make her look anything other than simply very fair of skin. At that time, however, she looked decidedly pale.

"Yes, thank you, Master Jennings. And tell lord Pergal that I wish to speak to him this afternoon. If he finds the time."

"His lordship will ever find time for you, Bessal Sedai," said Master Jennings with another formal bow. He prodded his fellow into action, and the lad scurried off to fetch something, or someone, and seemed only happy to leave.

Masrogen made certain to conceal the sheathed dagger with his own body as Bessal turned and walked stiffly back into her chambers, him heeling her – the image of a concerned Warder. He stopped her at the doorway and made certain it was safe before he let her enter.

Once inside he wordlessly held the knife and sheath out for her.

Bessal jerked, and then relaxed as she saw that he offered her it hilt-first. "Yes, thank you," she murmured. "I'd better destroy this."

He nodded.

She walked over to the fire place, tossed the weapon down into the fire, and stared at it in concentration. A… something… a joy, a liveliness… in the bond told him that she was channelling. The sheath disappeared completely, reduced to nothing but ash. The blade became a lump of glowing, twisted metal. She raised it out of the fireplace with Air, and held it aloft. It was still too warm to touch.

Masrogen had closed the door behind them. He made a routine sweep of the room, and the back rooms, just to be certain. He looked behind wall hangings, beneath furniture, in the closet, and both beneath and above the windows, along the outer walls. He listened at the walls where he knew there were secret compartments, for spying on guests, and opened those few doors the years had revealed to him to make certain those compartments were empty.

He returned to the antechamber to find Bessal seated in her chair, the breeze from the open window stirring her hair. It suddenly struck him that she was cold – she was _freezing_ – and doing nothing about it. So he took a blanket from the sofa, unfolded it, and went to drape it across her shoulders.

She sprang out of her stool like a frightened deer and stared at him, her hand raised as if ready to hurl something, and he could have sworn she was holding as much of the One Power as she dared.

Terror had flashed through the bond as the blanket had touched her. Masrogen scowled and let it fall to the floor. Another might have apologized at startling someone so.

Not Masrogen. Not for Bessal. This nonsense could not be tolerated – what would people say if they saw an Aes Sedai jump whenever her own Warder approached?

Moving slowly, as not to startle her further, he took hold of her shoulders, and locked her wide-eyed gaze in his. "You know better," he reminded her gruffly.

For one long, trying moment she stared at him. He felt her emotions: tight confusion and fear and grief, jumbled with affection and hope, all knotted in the back of his mind. Slowly it began to unravel, loosen, and slowly fear – which had only sharpened when he seized her – dissipated. Disappeared completely. Confusion faded soon after.

He let her go. This time, she did not straighten her skirts or touch already perfectly arranged hair. She let out a sigh she must have been holding, and cupped his cheek in one small hand.

"I know better," she agreed. "Will you forgive me?"

He shrugged, and picked the blanket from the floor to give her. There was no need to answer her. They both knew his answer.


	6. The Red Sister

**The Red Sister**

Watene Gamyrrin had chosen the Red Ajah because her family died when an uncle suddenly went mad and killed half their village. Untouchable by weapons and people trying to stop him, he had almost lovingly strangled each victim, stroked their dead faces and wept as he placed them on funeral pyres, then strangled the next with the same unnatural strength. Watene had been fourteen, her one surviving brother Dahlan only three. She followed the Red sisters who finally came for her uncle back to the Tower and put on Novice white. He came along, for there was nowhere else for him to go, and she had begged housing for him among the servants. When she attained the shawl at twenty-four, her brother had begun training with the Warders.

He had been disappointed when she chose the Red – it had smothered some childish dream of his to become her Warder. Watene had never wanted him for a Warder. He was her little brother, and she wanted to protect him, not send him into danger. He was her _little brother_, Light help her. She could never let him place himself between her and a threat.

And in the spirit of the Red Ajah, Watene was a firm believer that a trained sister wielding the One Power made a Warder a superficial nuisance. A superficial nuisance with an almost ludicrously high price: to _share_ her mind and emotions. _Unthinkable._

After four years of wearing the shawl, the higher-ranking Reds still had her running measly errands. Left no other choice, she grit her teeth but put up with it. The Reds were a hierarchal society, and she ranked low. But being sent here and there across the world by that _vile_ Rinette, barely home long enough to get the road dust out of her dresses, was beginning to grow tiresome. Tiresome enough to make her fondest dream one of coming home and hearing that the old hag had died in her sleep.

Her latest 'errand' was not for Rinette, but for a Grey. Rinette would be furious that she was late, of course, but it could not be helped.

But this was why she scowled instead of smiled when she rode into the Tower courtyard, followed by a small caravan of wide-eyed, slack-jawed fools. She was amazed that none of them had begged her to heal some lower jaw, broken from dropping to the ground too often. Not that she was much good with healing.

This Grey's errand entailed returning a drugged-down former Warder, now mad with grief and violent and raving when he wasn't asleep – so Watene had kept him asleep, since his keening gave her headaches – as well as the bodies of his Aes Sedai, and her other Warder, who had apparently dropped dead when she was killed. Sensible of him; that saved Watene much bother. If only the first had done her the same courtesy… but alas, the Wheel wove as the Wheel willed, and Watene's wishes for an easy journey home had been thoroughly mangled.

Rinette would not be pleased.

The two bodies had been prepared as well as possible, and fortunately the journey home to the Tower was not long, and could be made mainly by boat, and the weather was mild, but still the corpses had begun to smell, and Watene would be glad to be rid of them.

There would be mourning – a dead sister was always cause for some mourning. But the mourning would mainly entail the Greens, since the sister in question had been Green.

A small procession of Greens met her at the gate, receiving their deceased sister solemnly and sadly, some barely avoiding open weeping.

Really. _Greens_. No wonder they needed so many Warders; they clearly needed to empty their emotions into someone else before they spilled over. And someone to watch their backs when their hot-headedness carried them away.

As glad as Watene was to be rid of her burdens, she was gladder still to lose the small escort and procession of servants. They had too little respect for Aes Sedai. So what if she lacked the ageless look: she had a ring on her finger and a shawl over her shoulders. Perhaps they would have been more respectful, had she punched them on the nose with her ringed hand, and strangled them with her fringed shawl..?

No, such behaviour was beneath her, more fitting for a Green with a runaway temper. But she admitted that it _was_ tempting.

But just when she was about to take her leave of the Greens, her escort and burdens, and even her horse, and was about to rush up to her quarters to quickly dust herself off before she reported – long overdue – to Rinette, she was tapped on the shoulder.

Firmly tapped. She jumped, startled, and half-spun.

In front of her stood a Yellow sister, shorter than herself – which said little, Watene was tall – and with greying black hair, wavy and cut short of her shoulders. She had gentle sea-blue eyes, but from those gentle eyes came a scrutiny steady as mountains. She was of the Yellow Ajah, but much _much_ stronger than Watene herself, so Watene had to fight down her urge to simply walk away, or mutter something about Rinette… she swallowed, taking in the Yellow's strength, and suddenly had to fight down an urge to curtsey like a Novice instead.

"Watene Gamyrrin?"

"Yes. And you are..?"

"I am Talanee Miraniv. This is my Warder, Sarnon Comaar."

The Yellow waved a hand at a man a few paces behind her, who with interest watched the mingle of foreign servants and Tower servants who handled the drugged Warder and the two deceased under the instructions of the Greens. Watene had not seen him before – a nondescript man, who would blend into the background. His only noteworthy feature was the cat-like litheness common of Warders.

"I've waited for your return. Your Ajah told me you should have been here days ago."

"I was delayed," Watene said, waving a hand at the procession. She added just enough meekness to her voice to satisfy proprieties. The Yellow was far above her, after all. _But Light, Rinette will not be pleased if I don't come straight up…_

"You are here now. You had better come with me."

"Actually," Watene said, who with Rinette's cold anger burning in her memory was struggling to maintain meekness, "I'm tired, and I'd rather –"

"It concerns your brother. He has been Gentled."

Watene felt very much like someone had hit her across the face. She stared, and fought to keep her jaw from dropping – or worse, beginning to tremble. The Yellow watched her with that gentle scrutiny until she began feeling foolish, and blushed. "G-gentled? How? _W-why_?"

The Yellow gave a wry smile. "You know very well _how_. As for _why_; he was caught Channelling. Not aware of it himself yet, of course, but your Red sisters leaped on him like cats on a mouse. They held a trial at once and found him guilty, and he was Gentled before the day was out."

Watene stared at nothing. Her Dahlan? _Channelling_? Light. Oh, Light have mercy.

"Sarnon, do steady her. She looks as if she might faint."

A hand appeared beneath her elbow, and she gripped the arm before her knees buckled. It took her a moment to realise that it was the Warder – she recovered with a start and jerked free. "I'm fine!"

The Warder pulled back, but kept his eyes on her. He had lovely, hazel-brown eyes, which did not fit his plain face. His scrutiny was a bit too frank for her liking, so she glared at him until he looked aside. Oh, how she wished she could have slapped the ensuing smile off his face! But he belonged to the Yellow, and the Yellow was... _yes yes, far above me, I know_.

"Come with me," Talanee said softly. "I'll lead you to your brother. Sarnon, you may leave us."

Sarnon sketched a bow at his Aes Sedai, then headed off. Talanee, too, left without a word. Watene hesitated only a moment before scurrying after her. Dahlan, _Gentled_? Rinette would just have to wait.

Dahlan. Oh _Light_. Watene had seen enough Gentled men to know what that meant. It meant her brother was dying, torn in spirit and without any will to live. Tears flooded her eyes – her sweet Dahlan – but she hastily wiped them away on her cloak. It would not do to be caught weeping in public.

The Yellow patted her arm in a gesture that might have been soothing, had it not been so mechanic.

Watene hardly knew where the Yellow was leading her, but she had some vague impression of the guardsmen barracks. They passed a corridor lined with large sleeping halls, in which equipment was hung with soldiery neatness on hooks and shelves along the walls. She had, she realised with a start, barely seen her dear brother since Rinette began bullying her, just after she had been raised, and all she really knew was that he had finished his Warder training. A Green, a Blue, and a Yellow had asked to bond him, but he had declined, and joined the Tower Guard instead.

They passed the enlisted mens' quarters, and up a set of stairs to those of the junior officers. Her little Dahlan, already an officer? He had climbed ranks quickly. Of course, he _was_ Warder trained, and the Tower Guard knew to value such skills…

Junior officers shared rooms two and two, and it was into one of these the Yellow – Watene couldn't remember her name – led the way. At a table in the middle of the room two men rolled dice, while a third, grey-haired, leaned against a wall by the door, watching them.

The grey-haired jerked straight when the two Aes Sedai appeared. "Talanee Sedai!" he barked. "We've done as you ordered, Aes Sedai!" He straightened until it looked like his back might snap from the strain – and the two men playing with dice scrambled to their feet and imitated the uncomfortable posture. "We haven't left him alone, Talanee Sedai! We've kept him company."

"Has he spoken?"

"Not a word, Aes Sedai." The man hesitated. "Is he… tell me true, Aes Sedai. Is he going to –"

"You've done well, captain Harrin," said the Yellow – _Talanee_ – in her unshakably calm voice. "I've brought his sister here, let us hope she can coax him back to health. You may leave us."

The three bowed and scurried from the room.

Watene barely saw them go. Her eyes had fallen on the shape lying on his side on a bed, his eyes lazily half-open and empty, his breathing slow. She whimpered, hitched her skirts, and swept through the room to seat herself at his side.

"Dahlan," she breathed, taking his shoulder in a firm grip. "Dahlan, it's all right. I'm here now."

Those empty eyes swirled slowly towards her, and he smiled – at least, the corners of his mouth drew up. "Hello, Teeny," he said.

For once, she did not mind the nickname. It was a child's simplification of her name, and it usually made her furious, but not now. She just nodded. "How are you?"

"I think you know," he said, rather bitterly. "How would you feel if…"

"…if you were Stilled?" finished Talanee, and gave a brisk nod. "Yes, Watene. Imagine that. Wouldn't feel so good, would you? Good day, Dahlan. How are you today?"

"Not hungry today either, Aes Sedai," Dahlan told her, turning his eyes back to his pillow. "And not thirsty, either. Why don't you let me be?"

Watene hissed for air. "You're not eating?"

"Why should I?"

Watene slapped him – not hard, but it was a slap. "I'm going to bring you food," she told him. "And you _will_ eat it."

Dahlan sat up, so suddenly that she almost fell off the bed. She glared at him, but it was impossible to glare at his listless gaze for long. "Teeny," he said softly. "What good would it do? I… Light, I…" He shook his head, and sank back down onto the bed as if all energy had just drained out of him.

This time he faced the wall, his back turned to her. She was as shocked by that as she had been when first hearing what had happened. And Dahlan had always had a healthy appetite. His eyes had always sparkled with life and confidence. Watene felt the tears well forth, but resolutely ignored them. Light, she would not cry. Not in front of Talanee. And never in front of Dahlan - he should never have to bear the burden of her fear.

"The Reds just picked him from the courtyard and drew him off to trial," Talanee said, and this time her calm was broken by disapproval. She crossed her arms over her chest. "And that same afternoon he found himself Gentled. Didn't even know he had Channelled, but there it was. Suppose they were right, though, since they couldn't very well have Gentled him unless he was able to Channel, now could they? In any case, it's as bad for him as for anyone else. Like being Stilled." She nodded at Watene. "You can probably imagine."

Watene could not. Life without the Source..? She would not want to eat, either. What good would it do?

"B-but…" and her own voice hitched over a sudden sob. Would her brother just die before her eyes, waste away? Like her uncle had? Like so many other Gentled men? It had never bothered her before; it had been a cruel side effect of the necessity of Gentling. Life was harsh. But this time, perhaps _too_ harsh. "But what can we do?"

"I honestly don't know. But I have an idea. A theory, so to say. An experiment I would find... intriguing. If you're willing to try..?"

"Anything," rasped Watene. Beneath her hand, Dahlan had fallen asleep. His face had been guant, hair lustreless, skin pale. How long since…? She had seen plenty of Gentled men, and he looked like he did not have long remaining. He looked so _weak_.

Talanee went on softly, not to disturb him. "He's lost the Source. I suppose it's much like a Warder losing an Aes Sedai. We can't replace the Source for him… but if you want him to live, I'd suggest bonding him to a Green."

"A _Green_?" hissed Watene.

"No need to flare like a stepped-on cat. A Green, yes. They know the most of Warders – and the most of bringing men back from the brink after losing… well, losing Aes Sedai. But the principle should be the same."

"No Green is getting her hands on my little brother!" Watene snarled, her fists clenched in her red riding skirts. Still, she kept her voice down. She did not want to wake him. He needed sleep, and she would fetch him food, and… "Greens have Warders like most of us have dresses. Or like a master of hounds has _dogs_."

"It's the only way I can think of which might save him," Talanee said calmly. "_Might_. But it's your choice. He's _your_ brother."

Watene wanted to bury her face in her hands and groan. Wanted to – but of course, she did no such thing. It would not have been fitting. "Must it be a _Green_?"

"I suppose any sister will do."

Watene glanced down at her brother's curled shape. Light, he already looked half dead. Again she found herself fighting tears - fighting, but not completely succeeding. She blinked furiously. "But…" she felt her voice quaver and hated herself for it. "But whoever would bond a Gentled man? A… a dead man walking? He's a good fighter, he's Warder trained, but… but…"

The Yellow pursed her lips. "There's always _you_."

Watene stared – and forced a laugh. It was supposed to have been a bark of a laugh, curt and dismissive, but instead it came out a squeak. _Her_?

"I'm _Red_," she pointed out.

"I didn't say to tell anyone," said the Yellow.

"_Tell_ anyone?" Again she tried a laugh, curt and dismissive, and again a squeak emerged. Light, she needed to practice. "I don't need to. _You'll_ know from the start!"

"You may trust me in this. By my Oaths; I would reveal such a secret to noone." Talanee smiled. "The idea of such a little rebellion appeals to me."

Watene bit her lip, and watched her sleeping brother. Oh, Light. He was all the family she had. She had always taken care of him, always kept him safe, sheltered him, nursed him… she would do anything for her little brother. Had she not found him that home among the servants, all those years ago, she would have spun and marched right back out the gates of Tar Valon, and Aes Sedai training be damned. She would do anything to save him. But this..?

But why not? For Dahlan, _anything_, Light help her. Even defy the Red Ajah, and risk the rage of the Highest. She might be awarded a penance to put all and any penances to shame, but then so be it. For her little brother, she would face it gladly.

He had always wanted to be her Warder, and she had always denied him. And now… the Wheel wove as the Wheel willed. She would have a Warder. He would be her Warder. Only so _she_ could protect _him_, mind, and not the other way around. She would have to be firm with him on that point. He would have to stay with the Tower Guard, too, and noone could know.

But he would still be her Warder. And she would not let him die.

"Show me the weave."

Talanee laughed. "One moment, Watene. Shouldn't we ask your brother first?"

Watene crossed her arms over her chest. Her mind was set now, and she was not about to go to pieces over such details. "I'm his sister, and he's _barely_ legally of age. We'll wake him up, and we'll tell him that he can choose between this, or me boxing his ears and force-feeding him the rest of his natural life. Will that do?"

"I'm sure that will make him quite agreeable," agreed Talanee dryly.

"He better be," Watene muttered, and scowled down at Dahlan. He _had better_ be agreeable. She would _not_ let him die. "He always said he wanted to be my Warder when he grew up. After I chose Red, he sulked for months."

"Really?" Talanee murmured. "Well, look up, girl. It's a complex weave, and I'm not about to show it twice."


	7. Warder of the Yellow Sister

**Warder of the Yellow Sister**

His Talanee sat on a bench, her face tilted upward to enjoy the spring sunshine. In the back of Sarnon's head, her customary calm was threaded with a relaxed delight which the din of the practice yard did not disturb a notch.

Nearby sat a Green – Yamela was her name, and she was a lovely girl, though Sarnon would never dare _say_ so. She cheered one of her Warders as he wrestled – in truth, _was pinned down by_ – a Blue's Warder, while her other two Warders waited beside her. The younger was twin to one of the wrestlers, while the elder, Anthared, was a silver-haired man who had been Warder for as long as Sarnon could remember – previously to a Yellow. He stood with his arms crossed, his hawk's eyes judging every move the wrestlers made.

A young Brown sat with a book open across her lap at the Green's side. Her thoughts were far away, and her eyes followed her own Warder without ever quite seeing him.

Her Warder suffered through a lesson in concentration, delivered by Harran, the Master of Arms. It appeared... painful. Talanee would insist on healing it when it was over. That was Talanee's duty today; to heal any in the practice yard who needed it. The Yellows took turns. Had it been raining, Talanee would have grumbled, but with the sun out she enjoyed it.

The Brown's Warder bowed when Harran was done with him. Sarnon knew the boy, at least by sight: he had been trained and bonded very young, and the day before he had asked to be excused from the practice yard, for his Aes Sedai was leaving the Tower grounds and he wished to go with her. To leave a session early was every Warder's right, but was considered rude. So Harran had reminded the boy how Tar Valon was quite safe, and it was unlikely a Myrddraal would jump at her through a wall.

But at that, the boy's face had drained of colour and he had positively _fled_ – thus, the Master of Arms was harsh today. Harran tolerated no rudeness.

Sarnon hid a sigh. Being bonded was no easy thing, and not easier for the young. Myrddraal, leaping through walls? _Seriously_. The responsibility was getting to the boy's mind. Fortunate for him that his Aes Sedai was of the Brown Ajah: Browns were sensible, straight-forward women, unlikely to throw themselves into danger.

Not like Yellows. Where something had been hurt, Yellows swarmed atop it, completely forgetting that the something which had _caused_ the hurt may very well still be there.

Not to mention the Green. Sarnon would not have been a Green's Warder for anything.

The tides had turned for the Green's Warder on the ground. He was winning now – his twin had joined in. While Anthared furrowed his brow in disapproval, the Green sister hooted with laughter. One of the twins held their opponent down, while the other mimed chewing at his leg and made trolloc noises.

A good thing that the Blue sister was not there to witness the circus.

Come noon, a second Yellow strolled up to take Talanee's place. The two exchanged only the briefest greeting before Talanee left. Sarnon fell in beside her.

"You may take the afternoon free," Talanee told him. "Return for supper. I want to make sure you eat properly. I'll not have you grow bony again."

Sarnon inclined his head to her, and fell out of step. She headed for the Tower, and he took a moment to decide what to do. Only a moment: he had a pet project in a half-trained warhorse called Brownie – the name was unfitting, but he had never had much imagination when it came to naming horses. Brownie would appreciate some exercise – and could do with some further training.

He felt no hurry, and Talanee was all reassuring serenity. He went to leave his sword in his quarters first, and then headed across the courtyard, armed with only a long-bladed dagger in a sheath along his thigh. There would be no need for a sword in the heart of Tar Valon. Not in one of the Tower's own courtyards. Not while training his horse.

But he was one step from the stable door when the bond changed.

Confinement. Surprise. Fury.

He had never felt _confinement_ through the bond before, but that was the best word for it. It felt like being bound hands and feet.

He wavered in the doorway to the stables, a hand on the wooden doorpost. A stable boy came hesitantly forwards, perhaps to enquire if he was all right…

Surely there was some mistake. They were in the _Tower_. What could _possibly_ –

But the bond never made mistakes, and Warders who hesitated died – or worse, a thousand times worse: _their Aes Sedai died_.

Sarnon spun on his heels and darted in Talanee's general direction – all while his mind ran in circles. _In the Tower_. What could possibly – oh, Aes Sedai squabbled and schemed worse than Cairhienin nobles, but… had it only been surprise and fury he could have ignored it, but… but _confinement_?

Across the courtyard, ignoring heads that turned after him; into the Tower, oblivious of servants and novices who scurried out of his way; up a flight of stairs, almost rushing right into an Accepted – who shrieked like a girl, then caught her dignity and glared daggers at his back as he ran on. He took no notice.

Two more flights of stairs, and a corridor – he hardly knew where he was, he let the bond guide him. A passing Warder looked in askance as he rushed by, hand going to his sword as if wondering if – and why – there was a need. Sarnon made a gesture for 'at ease' and ran on – no need to involve others. Not others he did not know.

He reached a door – a rather small door, was he in the servants' quarters? Or guests? Both had several empty floors, and this was indeed empty. No matter – Talanee was behind this door. It was locked. He studied it, aligned his shoulder, and slammed into it.

He burst into a room which bore neglect like a veil. A wooden bed frame revealed it to be a sleeping quarter, but dust had replaced signs of habitation. This he noted – before flows of Air caught him and jerked him to a brutal halt.

Talanee sat on the bed frame's edge, fingers knotted in her skirts, back rigid. She regarded him without a trace of the relief which flooded the bond. She was ever unshakable, his Talanee. On the surface.

Towering over her were three Aes Sedai with red shawls across their shoulders. The room was so small that two had leapt aside to avoid being rammed by Sarnon as he crashed through the door.

"Release him, Odenna," Talanee said.

The lankiest of the Reds, a woman in grey silk with greying hair to match, raised her eyebrows and looked down her nose at Talanee.

"Release _her_, Aes Sedai." Sarnon's voice rumbled like a rockslide, even to his own ears. Talanee's bond warmed as if she might smile at him, but her face just watched him, emotionless, like one might watch a nephew who was performing an assigned task – poorly.

"So this is your Warder," another of the Reds said. "Haven't you taught him to knock?"

"He _knocks_ most enthusiastically, as you see," remarked Talanee dryly. "Do stand easy, Sarnon. The Reds and I were simply… discussing matters."

Sarnon made himself relax in his bonds. Inside, he wanted to _snarl_. She still felt _confined_. But if she asked it, he would be calm; calm and patient like a tiger in a cage, waiting for the door to open. And when it did…

The third Red, a plump woman with a mothering face, smiled at Talanee. "I believe our discussion is finished. You've taken our point to heart, I hope?"

"Naturally, Sitter," Talanee murmured, and bowed her head.

"Excellent. Release them, Odenna," the Sitter said and patted the lanky one's arm.

The bonds around Sarnon unravelled. He drew himself up and summoned his best Warder scowl. Oh, the _confinement_ had left Talanee too – she felt as much relief at that as she had upon seeing him – so he was no longer inclined to tear heads off, but he was not best pleased. Sitter or no, a bit of amendatory bruising would do a world of good.

Noone _confined_ his Talanee and got away with it. Light, he wanted to _snarl_.

"Ease, Sarnon," Talanee repeated in a murmur, reading his mood through the bond. She stood to face the others. She and Odenna were of a height, and ended up all too close and eye to eye. But Talanee ignored Odenna, and instead directed a minimal curtsy at the plump woman. "Sitter," she said, and swept towards the exit.

Sarnon wished he had his sword with him. He settled a hand on the hilt of his dagger instead. If Talanee wanted to leave a room, she would be leaving that room, whatever he had to cut a path through to make it so, be it doors, walls, flows of Air, or even other Aes… he paused the thought. He _might_ settle for just knocking other Aes Sedai unconscious instead of cutting through them. Might.

Almost to his disappointment, Talanee exited without incidence. Sarnon shadowed her, one wary eye on the doorway behind them.

"There's no need to hover over me," Talanee chided gently. "And let the blade go. You look like you're escorting me through the Blight."

Sarnon released the dagger's hilt, wiped the scowl from his face, and drained the tension from his limbs. He settled into a casual stroll next to her.

"Better," said Talanee. A moment later she answered his unspoken question; "They believe I put my nose in Red Ajah business."

"Watene Sedai and that boy?"

"Precisely. Fortunately for Watene, they seem to know no more of it than they should. But they told me rather obtusely that 'their' Gentled men are no longer available for my study." She sniffed. "I took an interest in the boy because Harran asked me to. I study Warders, not… men who can channel. Or _Gentling_."

Sarnon nodded. Talanee had taken to studying Warders – more precisely, the benefits and consequences of the bond, and the results of breaking it. A study which had taught Sarnon that he never wanted to survive his Aes Sedai by as much as a moment. Surviving Warders lived a half-life, if they lived at all, and he had no wish for it.

A few Warders were saved. Anthared, for instance. Though he was still… deadened. And he had changed. It might be that his new sister was a Green, and Greens were always odd, but Anthared heeled her like a trained hound. He had been so much more relaxed around his Vaserre.

"But if it was just a warning to keep out of their business, why the…" He glanced at her, and she understood.

"Julanne Sedai led me down that corridor quite politely, saying she wished my advice on a medical matter, and asking me about burn wounds all the way. When we were about to pass that room – I really hadn't been looking where we were going, you understand – the two others appeared and hustled me inside and sat me down before I could protest. And accused me of…" She gave an annoyed twitch of her head. "Of course, I stood to leave, and told them to mind _their_ own business and leave me to study as I chose. They sat me back down. Insistently." She swished her skirts in irritation. "They told me they'd take my involvement up with the Yellow Sitters, too. Watene, and her brother, are both Red Ajah business."

Sarnon nodded, unconcerned. The Yellow Sitters were unlikely to see fault in Talanee's actions.

"But while you're here, you might as well accompany me."

A tension entered her voice – a tension Sarnon recognized. It was… unease. "You go to visit that Warder. Rill."

Talanee nodded.

"I'll come."

A trickle of relief in the bond was his only reply, and only thanks. Sarnon's mouth tightened. Rill had been no more than a decent swordsman, at the bottom rungs of Warder standards, but a man with a sly mind. Not a typical Green's choice for Warder – but noone would question a _Green's_ choices for Warders. Now, Rill was… well.

More than one Warder had turned feral at the death of his Aes Sedai. When roused from his stupor, Rill wept and shouted. "You can't keep me here!", "Where did she go?", moans of "She's dead, she's gone", and cries of "she can't be _dead_!", all combined with obscenities foul enough to make even the worst sell-sword blush. None of which was surprising. But what set Rill apart from most was how he attacked the Yellow sisters who came to tend him. And when they bound him in Air, he laughed at them; scornful, harsh laughter. "You never knew," and "Blind, lack-brained _fools_,", and "the Great Lord will –"

The 'Great Lord'. That was what caused Talanee's unease. The man seemed to be a Darkfriend. And worse; he implied that there were Aes Sedai Darkfriends. Said it straight out at times. A touchy subject. Last Sarnon had seen of Rill – just after he arrived, two days before – he and Talanee had left the room followed by screams of "I agreed to bond, but never to this! Never _this_! Burn you, burn _her_, burn Aes Sedai, burn the Great Lord _himself_! I'll –"

Talanee had hurried away, sickened by Rill's talk, and Sarnon had had no wish to stay longer than it took to bolt the door shut again. If even a word of that raving was true…

Darkfriends among Warders and Aes Sedai? No – the Tower was safe. _Safe_. If not the Tower, then where?

But even his unshakable Talanee showed concern at the former Warder's words, and Sarnon found himself unable to dismiss them completely.

Now, he walked beside Talanee and mulled the matter over in his mind. Tension began building between his shoulder blades. If it made Talanee uncomfortable, it made _him_ uncomfortable. Still, he was the one with a hand tight on his dagger's hilt, and she the one who slapped it away and told him to _ease_.

Rill and his volatile behaviour had been moved from his old rooms in the Green quarters, to a guest room at the base of the Tower. A room in a long, abandoned corridor, which might as well have been a dungeon, even if it looked nothing of the sort. Hardly even the servants passed that way – there was no need to let more people than necessary hear the man's rambles.

An Accepted should have sat watch at the entrance of the corridor, but was not there. Talanee frowned and muttered, and likely made a mental note to report the failure to the Mistress of Novices.

Sudden boots rushing at them from behind made both Sarnon and Talanee turn.

A lean man with a perfectly trimmed goatee and grey at his temples sprinted towards them, face white, sword in hand.

Sarnon knew him: Contair, Warder to a Blue… to Evain Sedai. Contair was a decent man, so Sarnon simply motioned Talanee to the side. Naturally he kept between her and the bared blade, but he made no move to stop the other.

But the man skidded to a halt instead of passing them. He reached to snatch Talanee's arm – Sarnon leaped to defend her, beating Contair's hand aside.

Contair jerked back, as if only then seeing Sarnon at all. "Healer!" he breathed, his voice so cracked it was a wonder he could form words at all. He met Sarnon's gaze with eyes wild and pleading. "She's _dying_."

Sarnon blinked. There was no need to ask who _she_ was. And he could easily sympathize with another Warder on this point. With _any_ other Warder.

He took Talanee's one arm, just as Contair seized the other, and together the two of them practically carried her onward. At a dead run.

Talanee accepted the treatment with remarkable tolerance. Completely _unshakable_.

They reached the door to Rill's chamber – it stood _open_ – and Contair released his vicelike grip on Talanee's arm to rush ahead. He barely paused to sweep his eyes through the room before dropping on his knees by his Aes Sedai's side, his sword already shoved back into its sheathe. There too, he paused, face a blend of indecisive agony and enough fury to burn all of Tar Valon to cinders.

Evain lay spread on the floor just inside the doorway, face-down, the back of her head a mass of red-soaked curls. Contair reached to turn her over –

"Don't touch her!" snapped Talanee, and Contair jerked his hands back as if she had cracked a riding crop over his knuckles. Talanee sniffed, then folded her legs neatly to sit at Evain's head, unconcerned over how her knees landed in blood. She lowered light fingertips to Evain's scalp, through the bloody hair.

Contair seemed unable to decide if he should watch Evain, or Talanee, or the room. His was a trembling stillness, on the verge of an explosion. He just did not know _at what_ to explode.

Sarnon took post just outside the doorway: after he had made certain that the little chamber was free of dangers, he focused on the corridor. He suspected that, if anything threatened either of the women in the room, Contair would go berserk. He already battled despair over his own Aes Sedai, and he would know that Talanee was Evain's only hope.

The corridor was empty and still, thank the Light.

Talanee was full of crispy focus: careful, recognizing, analyzing, and… suddenly Evain convulsed, her head thrown back and up, and she let out an open-mouthed hiss which sounded scary coming from someone previously so still. Then the Blue sister sagged back onto the floor.

Contair's haunted black eyes searched Talanee's face for clues.

"It's safe to move her now," Talanee murmured. "I've done what I can."

Contair gently rolled Evain onto her back, supporting her head as he did. "She was aware," he said quietly. "Now she sleeps." He took a deep breath. "Will she… will she wake?"

"I've done what I can," Talanee reiterated. "Which is all any Yellow sister could have done." She studied her patient's face, lifting an eyelid and peering into the eye. Most Yellows would have settled for what a Delving told them, but not Talanee. She had been apprentice to a physician before coming to the Tower, and she often performed a physical examination as well – in the difficult cases. Checking people's eyes and pulse and fingernails – whatever use that would have been – seemed to soothe her. Sarnon knew it for a sign of uncertainty, but noone else ever would.

"How do you mean, aware?"

"Groggy," Contair specified, and picked stray strands of hair from Evain's face. "Unfocused. Drifting, but aware." He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and began wiping the blood away, very gently. "Drifting more and more…" His voice faded; he tried to hide the hesitation by focusing on refolding the handkerchief and dabbing Evain's eyelids with a clean corner.

Sarnon understood. Contair had felt the life seep out of his Aes Sedai, and it had terrified him. Sarnon scanned the corridors and wished he had brought his sword. Whatever had hurt Evain might still be near.

"What happened?" asked Talanee.

Contair shrugged. "They must have surprised her. I don't think she even had time to see _that_ –" He jerked his head toward the bunk bed, where a man – Rill – lay curled around his own cut wrists, the knife dropped from his hands. "One moment, calm, the next… pain and grogginess."

"Hit with something in the back of her head," Talanee said. "She was lucky to survive – it should have killed her. Lucky, too, that her assailant likely thought it had. She sleeps now – we'll see how she feels when she wakes."

"I thank you, Aes Sedai." Contair bowed his head, his hand over his heart. "I will not forget this. Neither will she."

"One more thing." Talanee's voice was casual, but the feeling relayed through the bond was anything but: tension. Sharp scrutiny. The same scrutiny which her eyes aimed at Contair. It was a sign of the other Warder's distress that he did not notice. Such a look should have put his guard up, but did not. "I don't believe they completely surprised her –"

"They did," Contair murmured.

Talanee frowned at his interruption, but went on smooth as milk water. "No. She was about to defend herself. There's a residue… well, someone – and it must have been your Aes Sedai – wove a club of Air. Crude, but –"

"A _club_ of Air?" Sarnon repeated disbelieving. Crude indeed! An Aes Sedai trying to defend herself had so many better tactics at hand than _clubs of Air_! A club was an _offensive weapon_, not a _shield_.

Talanee frowned at him for interrupting.

Contair, however, seemed not to notice. His dishevelment showed again, in how he let his emotions run his face, how he let slip two words. Barely words at all, perhaps just a breath, but a breath formed unconsciously into syllables: "_Black Ajah_."

Talanee's frown whipped from Sarnon to Contair, and she slapped him as hard as she could.

Contair barely blinked, but Sarnon tensed. If the other Warder grew angry… but no. Contair only bowed his head. The slap seemed to have collected him. "Forgive me, Aes Sedai. I let my worry rule my words. It will not happen again."

Talanee looked a thunderstorm. The bond… well, thunderstorms had to be afraid of _something_, and whatever that something was, it infused the bond. Sarnon wondered if he should slowly back away. Perhaps hide beneath something.

"If your were my Warder, for _that_, I'd wash your tongue with soap and scrub it with a razor," Talanee snarled. "For Evain's sake – she needs _rest_ – I won't tell her. Be glad."

Contair looked anything but glad.

"Now keep her under eyes," Talanee instructed. "If she drifts deeper than sleep, you'd best call for another sister. A _Yellow_, mind. I don't know any Blue deft enough in this sort of Healing. Head trauma is seldom a simple matter."

Contair nodded.

"I'll visit the Blue quarters come early afternoon, if you wish," Talanee went on. "To check on her. You're not to give her food or drink before then. A sip of honeyed water to wet her lips and mouth is fine, but no more."

Contair nodded again. "I would be grateful if you came…" He frowned.

"I am Talanee Miraniv."

"Honour to serve, Talanee Sedai," the Warder said formally. He looked down at Evain again – an utterly helpless look.

"You may carry her," Talanee assured him. "She'll take no harm from it."

Relieved, Contair reached to lean the Blue onto one arm, gently settling her head against his shoulder, carefully arranging her skirts, before he scooped her legs up over his other arm and rose. His movements, slow and tender like those of a parent handling a sleeping child, contrasted sharply with his grim expression: he began towards the door with the face of a man heading out to war.

"Sarnon. Accompany him. Make sure they arrive safely at the Blue quarters."

Sarnon hesitated. There was still blood on the floor, a dead man in the room, and an Aes Sedai had just been assaulted. And Talanee chose _now_ asked him to leave her alone?

She arched an eyebrow at him as he first made no move to obey, and her bond was touched by firmness. For no – Talanee never _asked_. She ordered, and expected obedience. And she priced a patient's safety higher than her own.

Sarnon bowed his head in acquiescence. "If you wish company, Contair?"

The Blue's Warder studied him, shortly, and made up his mind with a glance at Talanee – Talanee having saved Evain settled the matter. "I would be glad for it."

Sarnon nodded and fell in beside the other Warder. They strode quickly down the corridor – quickly away from Talanee.

"You would actually leave her at a time like this?" asked Contair softly, once they were out of earshot.

"I would do as I'm told." Sarnon replied – but his mind remained centred about that knot of emotions in his mind like a fly buzzing near a flame, waiting for the slightest sign of danger. "Like it or not."

Contair glanced at him, and in sympathy quickened his step.


	8. Warder of the Blue Sister

**Warder of the Blue Sister**

Evain sat perched on the windowsill, her knees drawn up to her chest. It was near noon, but she was still in her nightgown, lost in thought. Her breakfast had been brought in earlier, but stood untouched. Her bed was still neatly made – she had not slept in it. Of course, Contair would have known that anyway.

He took an apple off the breakfast tray and sank his teeth into it. The Aes Sedai were always served better apples than Warders were in their own quarters. Contair had been taking Evain's for years.

"They won't go away just because you hide," he said through a mouthful of apple.

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

He chuckled. "Let me keep this one, bad habit. You've worked all the others out of me."

She made no reply. The bond remained thoughtful, distant, touched by fear. It had been for four days now. She had not left her room for four days. Her only visitor had been the Yellow sister, Talanee Sedai, who had been pleased at what she called a complete recovery.

Physically she might be well, but Evain had been hurt worse than that blow to her head. He could not, in all the years he had been her Warder, ever remember her sitting in her room doing nothing. _Why_?

Evain had not been killed, but the experience had frightened her.

Light, it had frightened him, too. It was difficult to leave her side, knowing that the Black Ajah might come to finish their work any moment.

For it had been the Black Ajah. Evain had no memory of the event, but Contair knew what the bond had told him – there had been no warning, no surprise, no preparing to defend herself. _Someone else_ had woven that club of Air Talanee Sedai had mentioned – Light, a club was an _offensive_ weapon! _Someone else_ had woven it – and likely, _it_ had been what had struck the back of Evain's head.

They did not know who cut Rill's wrists – for the man had not done it himself. Warders fell on their swords, or on the swords of others, if it came to that. He had never heard of a Warder cutting his wrists before. But Rill's death was not spoken much of. The sisters who had even known about him seemed all too content to accept that he was dead, and that was that. The Accepted who had been supposed to sit guard outside the corridor had been found in her bed, heavily asleep, and had no idea how she had ended up there, no matter how the Mistress of Novices raged at her.

In short, Evain and Contair did not know who had attacked her, and did not know if that attacker had recognized her, did not know whether or not they would come again. Whoever it had been surely knew that Evain had lived, since no Aes Sedai had been found dead.

Because of that they had to carry on as usual, draw no attention to themselves, which meant that Contair slept in his room in the Warders' quarters, far below the Blue rooms. He had spread the tale that Evain suffered from a sour stomach, and thus explained both her long stay in her chambers, and the visits from Talanee Sedai – some Blues might wonder why a Yellow came to tend one of their own, but let them wonder. It was not unheard of.

He even attended his usual morning sessions in the practice rings, but after that, he headed up to keep Evain company. He brought his sword. That, too, was not unheard of.

He sighed and wanted to sit down in one of the comfortable armchairs, well-padded and covered with blue velvet. But sitting down did not suit him. He was too edgy. He would be up again in a moment, listening at the door, memorizing the layout of the room – a room he already knew better than the back of his hand – and pondering if it was possible to climb down the wall outside one of the windows, should it become necessary.

He had slept even less than he sat down, and was weary to his bones. But that was irrelevant. Evain might be in danger, and the only reason he slept at all was because she had told him to. He obeyed, and forced a few fitful hours of rest in-between pacing back and forth in his rooms. Not even the hours in the practice yard, which usually put him at ease if only through exhaustion, could calm him.

He admitted that he loved his Aes Sedai more than was fitting, and they both knew it. Evain shared no such feelings, and they both knew that, too. That was simply how the Wheel had chosen to Weave, and Contair accepted it. He was her Warder, and that was all he would be, and that was enough.

He strode across the room, studied a painting of a much younger Evain mounted on a dappled pony, then strode the other way, and dropped the remains of the apple back on the tray. He stroked his goatee and sighed as he approached his Aes Sedai. With his hands set on the windowsill next to her, he leaned on his arms.

"We should leave the Tower for a while. Visit a farm or something. Take a vacation."

"I will not run."

"But you _will_ hide?"

"I'm not hiding. I'm thinking."

Contair huffed. "You sure had me fooled."

She glared at him.

"You can't stay in here forever. That'll also draw attention. You're not a Brown, who comes out just about when everyone aside from her own servant has forgotten she exists."

"I don't have any place I need to go."

"It's not that you have any place you _need_ to go – it's that you need to _go_ someplace." From her window, he could see much of Tar Valon, and Dragonmount besides. Seeing Dragonmount had always made him wonder if he could climb the thing. He'd been born near mountains, and had roamed their winding ways as a child, before a familiar tragedy led him from his home, and eventually all the way to Tar Valon and Evain.

He still missed his mountains. Perhaps, if he could talk Evain into leaving the Tower, they might visit them… they would be safe there. Noone in those regions recognized an Aes Sedai's ageless face, and noone would believe that nosy Evain Sedai of the Blue Ajah had ever ventured to so remote and tranquil a place.

Evain sat silent, and Contair stood silent beside her. If he pushed her, she would tell him to keep quiet, so he did not push. Moments passed, and he battled an urge to check the door again.

"You're right," she said finally.

"I know."

"I think I'll pay auntie a visit. Will that do?"

"That will do nicely. I'll come with you."

She nodded. He went to check the antechamber, and the door out of her quarters, and her sitting room, and when he returned she stood behind the dressing screen, donning a dress. Knowing it took her a while to make herself ready, he posted himself in the doorway to the antechamber. His eyes fell on the breakfast tray.

"You should eat before we go."

"I'm not hungry."

"Evain, please."

She emerged from behind the dressing screen, skilled hands pinning her hair up with the help of two matching needles. "You'll need to button up my dress," she said, turning her back to him. "And try not to pop any buttons this time. Dessie will have a fit if you do."

He obliged. Once helping her dress had made him blush – but no more. Evain's maid Dessie, however, would shoo him hastily from the room when Evain was to dress, or undress. But right then Dessie was at home, nursing a newborn babe, accompanied by her mother, a pile of presents and well-wishings, and the pile of Evain's dresses which Contair had popped buttons on.

Evain, who had had maid servants all her life, had complained about the lack – up until four days ago.

Contair found it just as well that the maid was away – he would have had to worry about her, too. Then again, Dessie was allowed to nag Evain about anything, in the manner of servants, but Contair was not. Dessie could have bullied Evain into eating, but he could not. So he did not mention it again. In any case, Evain's aunt would offer tea and something edible, and Evain would not refuse.

Finally, dressed and hair braided, Evain led the way towards the door, and was just reaching for the handle when it burst open and in –

Contair swept like a wind past his Aes Sedai, sword already in hand, and –

"Hold!" cried Evain.

– and in burst a tawny-haired Blue, who blinked and froze when she saw Contair bearing down on her.

He stopped his sword just in time and shoved it into the scabbard, flowing into a bow to hide his embarrassment. "Pardon me, Bryla Sedai," he croaked. "I'm… nervy… today."

"Then you already know?" Bryla breathed, already – _thankfully_ – forgetting Contair's misstep and focusing on Evain. "You've heard?"

"Heard what, Bryla?"

"The Amyrlin. _Murder_ –"

"The Amyrlin's been murdered?" hissed Evain, and the knot of emotions in the back of Contair's head suddenly resembled a honed steel blade.

"No, no no no." Bryla's words fled her mouth like birds did a cage. She grasped Evain's arm – Contair managed to not stop her. Evain trusted Bryla – they had been Novices together. Contair found the tawny-haired woman to be an incurable gossip, with a flair for exaggeration but none for subterfuge. "But it was in the Amyrlin's hall. While she wasn't there."

"What was?"

"Four – Yellows –" breathed Bryla, eyes wide. "Four of them, by the Light! _Four_! They were there to address the Amyrlin, and sent the Keeper running like a Novice to fetch her – fetch the Amyrlin, I mean – and – and –"

"Out with it, Bry!"

"And when they returned – the Keeper and the Amyrlin, when they returned, all four were _dead_." Bryla took a deep gulp of air. "Killed with the Power, they say. Not a mark on any of them, but all dead as drowned mice."

"May the Light shine on their souls," whispered Evain. Her free hand had grasped the front of Contair's coat, and pulled him closer – he obliged, grimfaced. Some firmness returned to her bond, which had descended into a whirl of fear and disbelief since Brylla had spoken. She kept her grip on his coat as if holding herself up.

"Which Yellows?" asked Contair. "Their names?"

It came out of Bryla like a well-rehearsed poem; "Yna Huirin, Paeva Coranth, Lorin Jaryss, Issay al'Trede."

Contair breathed relief that Talanee Sedai's name was not among them. But he knew Yna Sedai's Warder – Collen, a man with a steady stream of dry jokes – and wondered what had become of him.

Evain's bond was a knife's edge again. "Bry," she said softly to her friend. "Go and find Girthona. She'll want you."

Bryla nodded. "You're right," she agreed. "Light! She will. I'm going." She wheeled about and sped off, running like a chastised Novice.

Evain stood silent, stiff, and stared at the open doorway. She spoke in a whisper. "Issay al'Trede and Paeva Coranth. I heard them discussing that surviving Warder, that Rill… That was how I learned of him, and why I went to see him. Because… because he was raving of the Blacks. And I wanted to hear what he had to say."

"You mean..?"

"I'll wager they all nursed Rill. I know Paeva spoke of consulting Lorin. Why not also Yna? And…" She gave Contair's coat a little jerk. "Light! Talanee."

"Talanee doesn't believe in the Black Ajah," Contair reminded her – he had already told her of his slip of tongue, and of Talanee Sedai's reaction.

"But now she's in danger from them," Evain said grimly. "We'll make her believe that."

"And… your aunt?" he said quietly.

Evain held out a brooch for him to take. It was a silver thing, two swallows chasing each others tails in an eternal circle, and it had been given to Evain by her aunt, 'for emergencies'. Contair took it, and Evain said: "Send a Novice for her. I need to gather some things. I'll meet you outside the Blue quarters."

"I go." And he went. Out of her personal rooms, down the corridor, and out of the Blue quarters. There were few Novices inside them, but once outside, he found one quickly – one who was scrubbing the floor. He grasped her arm and jerked her upright. She squeaked, but he just held the brooch beneath her nose so that her eyes focused on it. "Take this to Lomiel Sedai of the White."

The girl blinked at him, unsure whether or not she was required to obey a Warder. A dilemma Contair was more than willing to straighten out for her.

"Take it to Lomiel Sedai," he repeated, looming over her. "Now. Or I will shove you down the corridors, kick you up the stairs, and throw you through her door. _Move_!"

The girl blinked, but then set her face, and began to straighten.

Contair reminded himself that there was a difference between Novices and recruits come to learn the blade. But there were other ways to make Novices jump…

"Must I remind you that I speak with my Aes Sedai's voice, girl? And you're not only being discourteous to my Aes Sedai, which will likely earn you a trip to the Mistress of Novices, but worse; you've been told to hop and _you're not hopping _–"

The girl turned and sprinted the other way, so fast that by the time Contair realised she had curtsied and somehow wrenched both the brooch _and_ her arm out of his grip, she was already gone.

He shrugged, and steered back toward the Blue quarters. Evain was approaching, and the sooner he was beside her again, the better he would feel.

When he did rejoin her, some of the worry in her bond settled. Still, she came as near running as Aes Sedai ever did, and he kept pace with her, one hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes sweeping the corridors for dangers.

The corridors were mysteriously empty. Novices and servants ran to and fro, the odd Accepted rushed past – not quite at a run, but quicker than Evain – and a few Aes Sedai, thoughts caught in their own business, swept gracefully past without so much as exchanging a look with Evain. The Warders he saw looked edgy. News must have spread.

The only oddity was a Red accompanied by a young man, who walked leant toward her to listen as she spoke. He was not one of the glossy-eyed pretties that some Reds had heeling them like puppies, but an officer of the Tower Guard. Contair knew him for a former Warder trainee. What was he doing with a Red? Reds took no Warders.

Contair could not help glancing one last time at the pair over his shoulder. Had he not heard a rumour about that very boy? That he had been seized by the Reds and Gentled? A nasty rumour. Contair paid rumour no more mind than necessary.

"Auntie has the brooch," Evain reported, breaking through Contair's thoughts. "She'll be coming."

At the entrance to the Yellow quarters, they were stopped by four Warders standing guard. Evain immediately demanded to be let past – and was bluntly refused. All four Warders had their hands on their sword hilts, their expressions grave. Behind them stood a young Yellow sister, with more pearls draped about her neck and twirled into her elaborate hairdo than could be healthy. Evain took up her verbal battle with her, but the Yellow refused as blankly as the Warders.

But fortunately, Contair noticed, one of the Warders was Sarnon, who belonged to Talanee. He stepped up, hands spread to show them empty, and spoke directly to the other.

"Talanee Sedai is in danger," he said softly.

"Don't you think I _know_?" Sarnon gritted, his hazel eyes dark.

"Does _she_ know?"

"She knows."

"Does she realise from whom? From _what_?"

Sarnon spoke in a voice of iron fury, worked between hammer and anvil until he could wield it like a weapon. "Even if she doesn't, _I_ do. I thank you, Contair. But this is my battle. Get yourself and your Aes Sedai away."

Contair couldn't stop his smile. "Your battle? It's a battle I've been fighting for years. Tell your Aes Sedai, and let her make of that what she will."

Sarnon gave a curt nod. "Now, away with you."

Contair took Evain's arm, jerking her with him as he turned. "We go," he said. "I spoke to Talanee Sedai's Warder."

Evain gave him a sharp glance, her mouth half-open to begin scolding him. He decided to break that train of thought. "How about the brooch? Is it coming towards us?"

Evain frowned for a moment – then; "No. No, it isn't. Light. Go, Contair. _Run_."

Contair ran, and he heard her slippers patter the same pace, just at his heels. He steered directly for the White quarters, cursing each stairway he had to climb – not because it was particularly troublesome, but because it increased the distance to Evain behind him. She could not match his pace, nor stamina, for long.

But she had told him to run, so he ran. Stairway, corridor, stairway, doorway, hall, another corridor. Noone guarded the entrance to the White quarters, and as always it seemed deserted. He rushed to Lomiel Sedai's door and burst inside without bothering to knock.

He burst inside – the smell of burnt flesh assaulted his nostrils, he caught a hasty glimpse of a bloody white-clad woman spread across the floor, and –

And out of nowhere, someone grabbed him, spun him, and landed him firmly facedown on the mosaic floor. The air fled his lungs at the impact, the knee that jabbed down between his shoulder blades threatened to break his spine, and the arm that was twisted behind him threatened to leave its joint. A hand, firm atop his head, pressed his face down.

"Release. I have him," ordered a woman's cool voice.

Human hands and knees left Contair lying, while bonds of Air replaced them.

"It's Contair," came a man's deep voice. "Do I kill him?"

"_Quiet_. Contair, listen to me. Has something happened to my niece?"

Contair's daze began to fade, and he recognized the voices; Haqon, and Lomiel. Then the woman on the floor was… "Wh-what?" he struggled to get air into his lungs and reply. "No, Aes Sedai. Evain's fine. Evain's coming. We thought –"

"Ah, yes. The brooch. And my promise to come at once. You worried."

Contair's face was still pressed to the mosaic, and he saw nothing but an out-of-focus white flower on a pale green backdrop.

"If I'm not to kill him," Haqon growled, "you might as well let him up."

With that, the bonds released Contair. He climbed unsteadily to his knees, looking up and around. There was a dead woman lying on the floor, blackened soot down her front, her face burned away… the 'blood' he had seen turned out to be red silk slashes in her skirt… but Lomiel looked perfectly at ease, folded in White Ajah calm like a lady in her fur cloak on a cold day. Haqon… Haqon was an odd man, who did everything thrice, as if on compulsion. But this day there was none of that; there was nothing but steel, as cold and bare on the sword in his hand as it was in his eyes.

Haqon would stop at nothing short of Lomiel's word. Truth be told, he had always frightened Contair. And today Lomiel frightened Contair just as much.

Evain was approaching. Contair held up a hand to pause Haqon as the man heard slippered feet and moved to the door. "It's my Evain," Contair explained.

Haqon glanced at Lomiel before he stepped back.

"Contair, thank the Light," Evain breathed as she rushed through the doorway, and at once threw her arms around his neck. "I thought I was about to lose you. What happened? Auntie, what's –" There she froze, in mid-sentence, her eyes fixed on the corpse on the floor. Slowly she straightened, but let her hands remain on his shoulders. The fingers knotted themselves deep in the silk of his shirt. He was still on his knees, flexing his arm experimentally, wishing his back had not ached as it did. Haqon had never been known for his gentleness.

"_Auntie_?" Evain prompted.

"This," Lomiel introduced with a disdainful wave of her hand, "was Keshil al'Daer. Of the Red Ajah – and the Black." Lomiel stood silent for a while. With her icy blue eyes, her white hair, and a face which had likely not been touched by the sun in years, she looked like a ghost as much as an Aes Sedai. She even wore white, like a death shroud, with just a slight touch of gold embroidery at the cuffs and the high neckline. Finally, she turned her dispassionate eyes to meet her niece's gaze. "I killed her. She asked me one question too many."

"You _killed_ her?"

"Oh yes. Not that it was very difficult." Judging from Lomiel's tone, she might have been discussing correcting a faulty stitch in her embroidery. "See, Keshil has believed for decades that she had me nicely broken in. I chose today to prove her wrong, and didn't give her much of a chance to rectify her belief."

Contair rose to his feet. Evain let her hands leave his shoulders, but kept one hand on his arm. "You'd better explain this, auntie," she said. There was fear and worry in her bond, but her voice was soft as silk. Soft as a silk strangling cord. "From the beginning."

"Lomiel, shall I..?" began Haqon. Contair would have bet every gold coin in his possession that the man was somehow holding one of his damned knives, and was ready to throw, even though both his hands were visible and appeared empty.

When Haqon threw, he did not miss. Contair was glad that Evain remained slightly behind him, at least partly sheltered.

"No, it'll all right, Haqon," said Lomiel. "Evain, Keshil and I met when she murdered a friend of mine. She planned to kill me as well, as I'd made myself a witness, and I was about to let her. I was young, and I was distraught, for I had just lost my first Warder, not to mention my friend. But she figured I would be of better use alive. I agreed."

Evain's fingers dug into Contair's arm until it almost hurt. It was his sword arm. He knew what she meant by it, and the very moment she released, he would…

He would get Haqon's knife between his eyes, and that would be it. He wondered if Evain realised that.

"You _agreed_?" Evain echoed frostily. "You knew she was Black, and you _agreed_?"

"I'm a practical person," Lomiel drawled. "I figured it would be easier to counterwork her alive than dead. So I agreed to her terms – information, small services – and took my time to consider things before I decided on a permanent course of action."

"Which was to _keep_ being her _pet_?" hissed Evain, her voice shrill.

"Certainly not. But by the time I decided my life was worth less than what Keshil demanded, Keshil had found out that you were my niece. You were a Novice back then. She could have killed you easily, and made it look like your own untrained ability had been the end of you. So circumstances changed. I had promised my sister to look after you, you know. I protected you from the Blacks, and thus mostly gave up protecting the rest of the Tower. Illogical of me." She shrugged. "But now she asked the wrong question. She asked if you were the one to visit… she never gave me his name. Some remnant Warder or another."

"Rill was his name," croaked Evain. "And as I told you, yes, I went to see him."

"In any case. She said you were becoming too great a liability, and –" Lomiel broke off with a start. She glanced down at the corpse. "And thus it went. Silly of her not to shield me properly. She was always much stronger than I. She underestimated me."

Evain swallowed. "Auntie. Have you heard…"

"The four Yellows, yes. I know. But there's more to that than meets the eye. But first –I need to know… do you still trust me, my niece?"

Evain collected herself. She reined in her emotions and drew herself up. She was of a height with Contair, if half as broad. But she had hard eyes; hard enough that her physical stature was soon forgotten. She had eyes harder than the mountains, colder than winter, less open to reason and argument than the stormy sea. Those eyes were out now – the steely determination was back in her bond. She stared down at Keshil's burnt shape, and then up at her aunt. "Should I trust you?"

"You always knew I battled the Blacks," Lomiel smiled. "Did you think I did it by inviting them to tea and discussing philosophy?"

"I didn't think you ran _errands_ for them."

"Which only helped me discover their purpose. What harm I have caused is weighed up by the good it has let me do. You were untouchable to them, Evain. Keshil guaranteed it – as long as I made myself useful, you were untouchable."

"She guaranteed it?"

"Keshil ranked high among them. I know it – and I've learned more from her than she could have suspected. Thanks to my interactions with Keshil, I've stopped some of their plots, and I've personally killed seven Blacks. Eight, now. And there's a new plot to stop. Those Yellows were only the beginning, my niece. Soon the news will begin to spread that the Amyrlin –"

"The Amyrlin?"

"Oh, yes. There's to be a riot in the Tower. Blacks among the Yellow sisters will accuse the Amyrlin of the four murders. Rather brilliant, actually. It will effectively split the entire Tower, stirred in every Ajah by the resident Blacks."

"But why?"

"The Blacks plan to put one of their own on the Amyrlin Seat. Now doesn't that sound like something we should put a stop to?" Lomiel's ghastly countenance was lit by a mad smile, and the exact same mad smile spread across Haqon's face.

Light, the man frightened Contair. He was glad Evain still clung to his arm as if it was all that held her up. If she had decided to let go instead… _Light_.

"Decide quickly, Evain. There isn't much time."

"I'd rather work _with_ you, auntie," was Evain's retort, "than against you." It was a reply as true as any, but it promised nothing. It gave her time to think – Lomiel and her smile probably knew this as well as Contair did. Evain went on: "So… what do we do?"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_Author's Note:_

Thank you very much for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The "sequel" is in the works, and called "Aes Sedai". Guess from whose viewpoint it will be?

Don't you look eagerly forward to digging into the twisted workings of Lomiel's mind..? Or sifting through the tangles of Jahra's distractedness? And above all... what's going on in the Tower, and what will be done about it? Who'll live, and who'll die, who'll lose a Warder, who'll lose an Aes Sedai? Who's on Lomiel's list, and why, and will the Amyrlin survive?

And until I get to finishing "Aes Sedai", please entertain yourselves with "Warder tales".

Oh, and yes, please forgive me all this shameless self-promotion. The plot bunnies made me do it.


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